We All Fall Down
by natcat5
Summary: "All great countries are destroyed. Why not yours? How much longer do you think your country will last? Forever?" Each nation remembers falling. Now they reflect on their past and watch for America's turn. 10.A hero's perpetual dream that refuses to wake
1. Chapter 1

"_What are you talking about? America is not gonna be destroyed."_

"_Never? Rome was destroyed, Greece was destroyed, Persia was destroyed, Spain was destroyed. All great countries are destroyed. Why not yours? How much longer do you think your country will last? Forever?"_

-Survivor Guilt_ by_ _Rise Against_

**We All Fall Down**

They were all so old.

That's what you would see if you looked at the nations. Age. And lots of it. Despite everyone looking like a supermodel in their mid-twenties, oldness just _oozed _off of them. China, England, and France flaunted their age like a badge of honour. "I'm older so listen to this." "I have the wisdom of millenia so I'm right." "I'm your big brother so come here." Annoying phrases often used by parents to their disobedient children, or to their disobedient colonies, as it were.

Then there were nations like Greece and Japan, who didn't show off their age, but reeked of it anyways. Japan had a tendency to occasionally walk with a stoop in his back, or complain of aching in his bones, while Greece, in the few conversations he had, always spoke in that old-person way. That is, you could practically hear the 'back in my day' before everything he said, even if he didn't actually say it. Austria was another one of those, though it may have been his stuck-up mannerisms more than anything else.

Then you had countries like Hungary, Prussia, Poland and Turkey. Who were as old as sin but didn't act it. Who still chased each other around, spoke flippantly and teased unsuspecting Italians as if they were six-year-olds on the playground.

Then there were countries like Spain, the Italies, and the Nordics. Countries who, in everything they did, had that _look _in their eyes. As carefree and oblivious as the Mediterranean countries seemed, they all had a distinctly…_haunted _look in their eyes. Their gaze was deep, almost bottomless, and people could accuse Spain of being an oblivious nitwit and the Italies of being air-headed fools until they were blue in the face. One look into their eyes would prove them wrong. Even Korea had a similar look in his eyes. A look that faded and blazed and faded and blazed depending on the time of day, or if Japan was around. The Nordics were the same way. An aura of centuries of hurt and fighting just surrounded them. Sometimes you didn't even have to meet their eyes. It was just there.

There were countries where the aura of hurt rolled off of them more then the actual age did. The Baltics, sometimes England, often England's brothers, India, to name a few. A combination of all the different indicators of age. A stoop in their back, a bowed head, a haunted look in their eye as they tried to hide behind carefree personas and silly antics. When it got bad, they were painful to be around. Just painful.

Then there were countries that were simply _not _old. Or, at least, not old in nation-sense. America and Canada being the foremost in that group. In the collection of centuries and millennia-old nations, this crowd seemed to exude naivety.

That aside, if we looked into Canada's memories, we would see that it extended farther back than most people would realize. He did not always represent the land that is now Canada. Previous to him was a woman with olive-toned skin and beads in her hair and paint all over her body. A woman who grew old and stooped and who faded from memory long after she was considered dead by the rest of the nation world. As such, most would assume that Canada's, or rather, Matthew's memories began with his meeting with France. This was the point where the memories, and thus, the life, of most nations in the new world began. Because with the arrival of the Europeans came the arrival of a life where they interacted with their own kind and memories became that much more vibrant and brutal.

However, anyone who assumed this about Canada would have forgotten something crucial. That Canada was found by Europeans other than France, way _before _France. That his first, very vivid memories were of being in the company of bearded, helmeted men often compared with barbarians. That he recalled his first 'civilized' years as being full of bloodshed, fighting, and war. That when France had first picked him up he'd been a wild child who had bared his teeth and stabbed a spear through the Frenchman's chest.

But most would continue to assume that Canada was a young, innocent nation. His history devoid of the bloodshed that drenched others. An American invasion here, a Red River Rebellion there, but all in all, Canada's history was as peaceful as its nation. That in itself was enough to feed his reputation as a soft youngling. One who couldn't possibly fathom the weight of age. Despite the fact that his memories stretched 3,000 years into the past. This was Canada. A rare type of nation that was as old as any of the Europeans but did not display it in any noticeable fashion.

Then there was America, who people often assumed was older simply because he was more outgoing and always took a protective stance towards Canada, but was actually significantly younger. Or at least, in nation standards he was. Which simply meant that his first 'memory' was significantly later than Canada's. America was too far south to have been visited by Vikings so his memories stretched only about 600 years into the past, give or take. A very, very short life in the eyes of the nations of the world.

America was young. So, so young. It was this youth that fed his refreshing optimism, silly ideas, and extreme sense of justice. The fierce patriotism, pride, and feeling of heroism in the American people was one that could only have come from not having everything you had torn down multiple times. Not having person after person stab you in the back. Not having to watch as your 'allies' took turns spitting on your mutilated body.

America had experienced hardship, but he had never been _destroyed._

"It's only a matter of time," say the nations of the Old World. Regarding his youthful energy and devil-may-care attitude with a sense of nostalgia (because they had all once had it). "He will be destroyed, one-way or another," they say.

And his older-than-it-seems brother watches in plain sight where no one can see him and gnaws at his bottom lip.

Will he be destroyed too? Or does the destruction of his French culture at the hands of the English count? Was that enough to pass as the 'rite-of-passage' that nations had to go through? The rite of being destroyed? He wonders, occasionally. But just as often he wonders about his brother. His brother doesn't wonder about himself, because the 'destruction' has never truly reached North America and the only reason Canada wonders is _age._

But his brother is so, so young. And now he's so, so big.

Big like Rome. Like Ancient Greece. Like England, France, Spain, Japan, China…..

"_All great countries are destroyed…"_

Canada swallows thickly.

The Europeans chuckle knowingly.

The Asians observe in reserved silence. Patient. Waiting.

The entire world watches in anticipation and a grim sort of satisfaction.

"Is everyone here now?" chirps the self-appointed 'hero' as he takes his place at the podium in the large meeting room. "Awesome! Let's begin the meeting, alright? I have a whole lot of ideas and plans to improve the world situation right now, so listen up!"

_Only a matter of time…_

**I was minding my own business, listening to the new Rise Against CD I had just bought, when all of a sudden Survivor Guilt came on and I literally FROZE. As soon as that beginning monologue finished I was like FANFIC. NAO. And, yeah. This happened. :P **

**Sorry, it was kinda crappy. I wrote it in like five seconds. The following chapters will be much better, as they won't be told in this choppy format. (I'll be sticking to the format I used in the second half of this). **

**Oh, yeah. This isn't a oneshot. **

**But I have a history of bad update time so...hehe, cross your fingers. I shouldn't have started a story that I don't have a hard and fast plan for, but I couldn't resist! Darn you Rise Against! **

**Oh! Yeah, 'Vinland' which is an area in what is now Labrador, was discovered by Vikings in 1000 BC. Yeah, I knew about it but was surprised it was that long ago. I thought it was like, 1300 AD or something. My jaw literally dropped when I looked it up. I was like 'Mattie's _how _old_?" _**

**That said, stick around for the rest of the story? It'll get better, pinky promise! Oh, and the chapters will be longer. This is just a wee little prologue. ;P **

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p **


	2. With his Heart in his Mouth

**Um, yeah, my over-all thoughts on this chapter...**

**WHAT IS THIS I DON'T EVEN. **

**That aside, I hope you enjoy! I personally don't like the first little bit, but it gets better quickly (in my opinion).**

_Arthur Falls with his Heart in his Mouth_

Whiskey.

Gin.

Rum.

Vodka.

Good old ale.

One shot.

Two shots.

Three shots.

Four.

Five shots.

Six shots.

Seven shots.

Mo-

"I think you've had enough there," says the man, bartender, person, thing. That guy who's supplying the booze. He's been his best friend all night. Now, it seems, he's committing mutiny.

"Don't you think I'd bloody well know if I had enough?" spits Arthur, wiping his mouth and glaring at the man. "I'd know, trust me, I'd know. Don't go spouting foolishness like that. Pour me another damn glass."

He's glaring back. Looking a bit sickened. Maybe the slightest bit of pity. Arthur knows that look. He gets it a lot, he realizes. Almost every time he goes drinking. It's an annoying look. The most annoying look in the world. Stupid human eyes, all narrowed and disapproving. Stupid human mouth, all downturned. Stupid human, looking down on him.

Stupid human.

Arthur sips at this glass instead of chugging it back like the others. It burns his tongue and his throat. Causes a stinging behind his eyes. The haze in his head gets a bit thicker, but not enough to significantly his thoughts. It will mess up his speech, his vision, but getting shit-faced is a lot more difficult when you're a nation and despite popular belief, Arthur has only reached that peak once in his life.

A comfortably thick haze over everything, slow, lethargic blinking and a heavy slur. Making him look like he's drunk out of his mind, while his brain functions relatively the same as usual.

Relatively.

Or not quite.

His thoughts are a lot more…_liberal, _in this state. He thinks of things he wouldn't normally allow himself to think.

Like how much that human's look is bothering him.

Once upon a time, Arthur could hold his drink. He could drink twice as much as he had tonight and still lead an army or a fleet with absolute coherency and a sexy smirk to boot. He could drink a full keg of ale and not bat an eyelid. He could. He _could. _Used to. Once. Past tense. Not anymore.

He also- and here was the real kick in the balls- he also used to command respect wherever he went. Surprising, no? Who would have that that twiggy Arthur in his tweed sweatervest, punk-ish hairstyle and personality similar to a PMS-ing girl could ever command respect? Well, he had once. Once.

And now, Arthur looks into the bottom of the glass that is still half-full with liquid and remembers looking into a similar glass. Except a glass in a radically different setting, in a wildly different way.

Red jacket. Feathered hat. Sea-worn breeches and a scabbard hanging at his side. Cutlass thrust through his belt at the left and a pistol stuck in it at the back. Shiny leather boots and a swagger so big you'd think he'd fall over.

He enters the tavern and everyone falls silence. Silent. People turn to look and then quickly avert their gazes to the floor. Don't make eye contact. _Don't make eye contact. _

He saunters to a table and stops in front of _his _seat. There's someone sitting in it, but not for long. They don't move fast enough and soon they're on the floor minus an ear. Arthur admires the blood on his cutlass as he takes his seat. He prefers it like this. When it's clean it feels dirty. No self-respecting privateer would have a cutlass devoid of blood. Sparkling and shiny, like it's never been used to carve up someone's innards. No. That would just be tasteless.

"A pint of rum," he says, gesturing to a well-bosomed serving lady. She seems frozen, until another girl- a woman really- nudges her. Arthur smirks at them both. A smirk well-known throughout England and seas all around the world. Glittering green eyes, so sharp they're like emeralds, set in a handsome face unblemished by pox, disease, sea and wind. Wild and ruffled hair half-concealed by the large plumed hat, and an over-all demeanor that just _screamed _confidence and power.

The girls titter despite themselves and run away.

Slowly, the tavern fades back into its usual noise and business. The humans talk amongst themselves once more, giving Arthur furtive glances or trying their best not to. There is an undercurrent of fear and tension in the air. A wrong word and they're dead. They can feel it. _Feel _it. It's not Arthur's reputation, because it's well-known that Captain Kirkland is one of the Queen's Pirates and not likely to pillage and burn a tavern or town. But it's his presence. Commissioned by royalty or not, he is dangerous. He is _so_ dangerous. They fear him. They respect him. They have a strange compulsion to bow down to him and offer him everything from their wedding ring to their firstborn child.

That is the power that England commands. Raw power. A power that has humans trembling in awe.

Because it is the golden age and England is so powerful that the ground practically shakes as he walks by. Spain's ships are crushed day after day. France poses no threat with England's great power. The most intelligent, steadfast and hardworking monarch ever to take throne has done him well. So well that he married the woman and charged her with the task of never marrying another. Unusual to the humans, but to any nation, they would understand her claim to be 'married to England' and her lack of will to marry a 'real man'.

His most beloved Queen.

For her most beloved country.

England in his prime, powerful, unstoppable, fearless, respected. Humans don't look him in the eye. Humans bow at his feet. Humans…

Humans snigger amongst themselves as he reaches for the glass and misses, almost falling off his stool.

And it's 2011 again, and the respect is gone and the fear is gone and the power is _gone_. It is post-World War II and England has lost all its money and all his colonies have gained their fucking independence and the power is _gone. _

He throws the drink back, taking in all of the rest of its contents in one gulp. The haze increases, the world is swaying just a tad and the voices of those _ignorant, disrespectful, disgusting _humans begin to buzz and fade into the background.

The glory days. The gl_orrrr_y days. He rolls the r on his tongue and chuckles humourlessly, swirling his finger around the inside of the glass and sending a quick glare at the traitorous bartender who cut him off. .

The bartender looks up, shakes his head, and sniffs at him _contemptuously. _

An image flashes through his mind. Leaping across the bar, breaking a bottle, shards of glass imbedded in the man's stomach, slitting his throat. Or drowning him slowly in a keg of his own prized ale. Twisting his neck to the side one inch at a time. Taking a rusty knife and sawing into his skin slowly, cutting of his head tissue by tissue….

The smell of blood fills his senses and grips the glass tightly.

Murder. He's no stranger to it. He used to revel in it. Death. Everywhere.

Death.

_Yes. _

Death.

…_Yes?_

Death.

…_No. _

Death?

_No! _

Not death. It wasn't death that was everywhere.

_Then…?_

England is old. England is so old. England is so hold it's barely fathomable. It's unfathomable. The weight of millennium upon millennium upon millennium bows his head where once it held it aloft. He's seen so much. Seen nations rise and nations fall. Risen and fallen himself. Yes, he's all too familiar with the sensation of being torn apart. Of being beaten down, crushed, pummeled, have everything he's worked for torn away in an instant. His youth was filled with that. Built up. Torn down. Built up. Torn down. Just like that. Pieces of him stolen, sold away. People being murdered, killed, slain, everywhere. Every part of him destroyed.

_Destroyed. _

Empires are built and collapse. Countries rise in greatness and then fade into obscurity. No one knows that better than England. He is, in fact, a living testament to that. The number of times France (especially France) or some other country had pinned him to some surface and taken him for everything he had was uncountable. Too many times.

Too many times.

_Too many…_

Yes, England was no stranger to destruction. He'd always thought he was…immune to it, in a way. Oh, he'd cried that first time. The first time that France ripped the clothes from his body and pounded him against a wall the bricks hot and scalding from the flames and his chest heaving for breath as smoke filled his lung and his eyes burned and he clawed at nothing and prayed to spirits his people had ceased to believe in.

But after that, destruction was almost…commonplace. Expected. A part of everything. Nations were invaded. Nations were destroyed. Nations clawed their way back up by digging their heels into the eye sockets of their enemies. He'd seen the ways other nations reacted to destruction. He'd seen Spain collapse on himself when his armada was turned into charcoal and his country lost the rich status it once held. He'd seen France's handsome face twisted into an ugly, hateful scowl as he stared up at Arthur with all his golden hair shorn off and a sword at his throat. He'd seen China after Nanking, with the pride he was so well-known for smashed to smithereens and his head bowed while his entire body shook and a ceaseless flow of blood streamed from between his legs. But that had never been for England. A bitter tear or two might flow down his cheeks, but he'd simply clutch his sword and press on. For King, for Queen, for life, loyalty, the crown, and God. He'd claw himself back up as many times as he had to until he had a secure throne of bones and gore at the top.

And then he'd succeeded.

The British Empire. It spans across everything. All continents, it seems. He owns almost a third a world and the rest is coming to him quickly. Everything is his. He takes more and more from more and more nations. His throne is built higher and higher as his empire expands and oh hello there France you look quite small down there. I beat you again didn't I? _Didn't _I? Hand over those colonies of yours, will you? I've won. I always win.

Always.

_Destroyed? _What does that mean to England? You can beat him down as much as you want and he'll bounce back up with a musket pointed in your face. The world is his-

_The world is mine. _

-and he'll sit on his gory throne for millennia to come. He has too many colonies in too many places and just too may riches over all.

_If you understand then serve me. _

Because on every continent he has a colony. On every continent he has a hold. Every nation is beneath him and every nation needs to kneel at his feet or perish.

_Bow, offer your hand. _

And then, there are the new ones, in the new world. South America and North America and the boundless riches within them.

His treasured one, America. The boy who is his pride, his joy. When he is with America, the empire in him fades. The nation who is just 'Arthur' came out and smiled and takes the boy's hand and picks him up and swings him in a circle. The devilish light fades from his eyes and the tyrannical smirk leaves his face and for just that moment in time, the human side of the nation returns.

Yes, he has it all. The world in his hand, and a prosperous colony that adores him and that he dotes on.

_Then…_

And then?

_That. _

What?

_...destroyed._

Arthur has seen nation after nation fall. He's seen people he's seen as allies fall with their bodies so mutilated and mauled that they were unrecognizable. He's been the one to mutilate and maul those allies. He's been mutilated and mauled himself. He's felt his cities burn and his people die and everything go up in flames. He's been humiliated, whipped, raped, hung, and had every injustice imaginable done to him.

But the term _destroyed _has never applied to him because he is not _destroyed. _Because he never falters, never bawls or pleads for his life, never loses control of his emotions like he did that first time.

The British Empire. Unshakeable. Incapable of being destroyed.

Maybe. Maybe it was.

But Arthur isn't.

He can shake it off at first, Shake it off.

_Rebellion! Treason against the crown! _

Childish. So childish. Just what are you trying to prove?

_Cease this foolishness this instant! What do you expect to accomplish here? _

You think you look so brave, so grown up in that disgusting blue uniform.

_As blue as your uniforms are, they've become stained with red fairly quickly, hm? _

You're going to lose.

_Dammit Alfred! _

You're going to lose and you're going to cry and I'm going to hold you because I lo-

_America…._

Because I lo-

_Why are you leaving… _

I lo-

_Don't you want to be a part of my glorious empire? I rule the world! _

"No, I don't. Nor do I wish to be your little brother any longer."

Oh.

_Oh. _

And then there's a ripping sound, a cracking sound, and a sound that's similar to someone taking a human body and ripping it in half. All flesh tearing and organs and blood spilling out and bones splintering and cracking.

A heart breaking is nowhere near as poetic as the French and Italians would have you believe. It's rather disgusting actually. Especially when you start coughing bits out of your mouth.

And then there's silence. They've stopped talking and they've stopped fighting. And he's on his knees, and there's blood bubbling out of his mouth and blood trickling down his face and what might be a bayonet sticking out of his back. But it's all numb. Numb.

Because he's lost.

He's lost America.

To that devilish bird known as Freedom.

And it's like there are shards of glass in his chest and he can't see and can't breathe and it _hurts so goddamn much. _

_Why does it hurt so much? _

Why?

_I've lost before. _

Several times.

_I just come back stronger. _

Yes.

_Why can't I do that now? _

Because you won't win.

…_..But why does it hurt so much? _

Because you've lost him.

_I've lost others! _

But you loved him.

...

You've never loved anyone before. Never.

_..._

_And now that one person is gone forever._

_. _

_._

_. _

_Oh._

There's a sound like a muscle being torn from bone and the _whump _sound of someone's head being crushed in and then Arthur falls backwards and he can't see the sky and he's glad because it's that _damnable _sky that Alfred has flown off into.

"I want to soar up into the sky! And never come back down!"

_Far from here. _

"And what about me? You'd leave me down here by myself?"

_Past the horizon. _

"Aw, but Artie! I want to go away and explore! Everywhere! All the lands!"

_Where I can hardly see you._

"All in good time. We'll talk to the King about expansion eventually. For now be content with what you have, alright Alfred? Alfred? …Alfred?

_More room to fly. _

And for the first time in his long, long life, Arthur is completely destroyed.

/

"Arthur? Arthur?"

It's like someone is repeatedly slamming a sledgehammer into his head. Except worse.

"_Mon Dieu, _must you always do this to yourself?"

…It's worse because it's a fucking French hammer.

"Sod off, Francis," he mutters, cracking open an eye and glaring upwards, "C-can't you see it's my happy time right now?"

The Frenchmen rolls his eyes, folding his arms across his chest and looking down at Arthur with disdain. "Lying in a puddle of your own drool in an empty bar doesn't seem to me like a very good choice for your 'happy time', Arthur."

Arthur curses at the man before slowly pushing himself up and wiping off the drool with the back of his hand. He turns his head and faces Francis head on, eyes blazing despite being red-rimmed and watery. The older man's gaze softens and he sighs before running a hand through his hair tiredly.

"It's been centuries, Arthur, do you really find the need to do this to yourself every single time this day comes around? It's a tad immature, _non_? Every other day of the year you appear to have moved on completely."

Arthur turns his head away, looking down at the table with his eyes burning.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand, frog," he says lowly, the slightest of tremors in his voice, "Just leave me alone."

Silence falls between the two old friends/enemies/comrades in age, and with a final sigh Francis turns to leave.

"I can't tell," he says suddenly, just as his hand touches the door handle. "I can't tell what your thoughts on the matter are. It intrigues me, I'll admit."

"Thoughts on what matter?" grumbles Arthur irritably, slumping down into his seat.

"You know," says Francis, "About the time, place, and method _cher _Alfred will be _destroyed._"

Arthur stiffens. Stiffens. Turns his head away. Looks down. Looks up. Closes his eyes. Clenches his fists.

Ah, yes. That seems to be on everyone's mind lately. The nosy, disgusting prats.

"It's the damage done by the recession that's making people wonder," continues Francis, purposefully blind to Arthur's pain, "That and the rising threat of an extreme rebuttal by terrorists. We are all of the opinion that the time isn't as far-off as it once was." Francis tilts his head to the side, a contemplative look in his sly blue eyes. "The general feeling is one of grim satisfaction. Even those who are his friends. Everyone wants to see the golden boy fall. At least once. But then," Here, Francis turns, looks at Arthur, _looks _at him.

"Then, there is Matthieu, who is close to the boy. Who loves the boy. Who dreads the day America is destroyed with every fibre of his being. Which leads me to wonder. Arthur, you love Alfred too. You still do, after all this time. But regardless, he is the one who destroyed _you. _He is the one who took your spot as world superpower. He swept into Europe and took everything from you. _Everything. _Call it being helpful or saving our butts, but that doesn't change the fact that that's what happened. So I have to wonder," Francis turns back towards the door, casting Arthur one last look over his shoulder, "Despite all your love, are you also eagerly anticipating his destruction?"

And with the faint smell of cologne, roses, and scented water, France is gone.

Arthur doesn't say anything. Continues peering into the long-empty glass.

It's not true. It's not. America didn't destroy England. World War II did. It took all his money and brought independence to his colonies and kicked him off his royal throne of blood and guts. No, America didn't destroy England. France still reserves that title from when they were both children. It wasn't America who brought England that total destruction. Who tore his country apart.

It was _Alfred _who destroyed _Arthur. _

/

Walking.

Step, step, step.

Click. Click. Click.

His dress shoes keep clicking against the pavement. It's disconcerting. He's used to a _splish, splish, splish, _as he walks. Puddles all around.

Rain, rain, come again.

Why is it always so goddamn fucking sunny in America?

_Honestly! _

It's ridiculous!

_Ridiculous! _

Clearly a euphimism for something.

…_.No…_

Of course it is. America is always sunny, Alfred is always smiling. England is always wet, rainy, and miserable…

…_And I'm always… _

There you go.

Arthur stops walking, he looks up at the sky, twinkling, wide, covered in a haze of smog.

_Beautiful. _

Blonde hair, blue eyes, a cherubic smile. Stretching arms, spread hands. Pick me up! Pick me up!

"Are you going to shoot me England?"

Hard blue eyes. Hair slick with rain and matted with blood. Tense arms, muscled like whipchords. Hands clenched into fists.

Blood and gore and bits of broken heart bubbling up in his mouth.

"Arthur?"

The Englishman jumps in surprise and turns around, blinking owlishly. There is a metallic tang in his mouth that is unmistakable and morbidly familiar. He reaches up and wipes his mouth with the corner of his sleeve just in case, keeping his eyes on the ground.

"Aw, Artie it is you! You came after all!"

Irritation. Pain. More irritation. Resignation. It's that voice after all. That voice.

Arthur slowly lifts his head and matches his gaze to the other man's. Alfred smiles back. All glowing smiles and sparkly eyes behind those glasses neatly perched upon his nose. His hair, as usual, is a windblown masterpiece looking like it was styled to look like a movie star's. That same bomber jacket that he wore over every outfit, somehow endowed with the same timelessness as the man himself, never seeming to age or permanently tear or shrink and crumble.

The same America. Seemingly unchanged by time, and the trials it brought. Seemingly untouched by the death, the pain, the war.

Ever the golden boy.

"Don't be ridiculous, git," spits Arthur irritably. "I'm here for a meeting, not your stupid party. It's pure coincidence that we ran into each other here."

Alfred grins, that stupid, lopsided, shit-eating grin that he always seems to be wearing nowadays. The America saunters up and throws an arm affectionately around the Brit's shoulders, tugging the man into his chest.

"That's what you say every year, Artie!" teases Alfred, keeping his hold despite Arthur's hissed protests. At the comment, Arthur's struggles cease as he lowers his gaze to the ground with a slight blush on his face.

Yes. That's true. He has somehow managed to conveniently have a meeting every Fourth of July that brings him to Washington D.C. every year. He would never willingly walk into Alfred's party, not with what it represents. Call him petty or childish but there is no way that England can willingly celebrate the day he lost the first and only thing that he has ever truly loved.

And the day he was _destro-_

"Hey, Arthur, it's nice that we can do this every year, isn't it?" says Alfred suddenly, interrupting the Brit's thoughts. "Even if you like to pretend it's by accident, it's nice that we can meet like this, just the two of us, right?"

Arthur doesn't say anything. Can't say anything. Looks at Alfred.

Who is looking at him.

Some exceptionally gaudy and over the top fireworks are exploding in the sky.

Arthur wishes he brought earplugs. And sunglasses.

Alfred laughs at his indignant expression, reaches over, and ruffles his hair.

Arthur screeches and it's as close to a touching moment as the two will ever get.

The fireworks continue and Alfred's ever-short attention span is once again drawn to the sky. Arthur's eyes flicker over to the younger man and stay there.

Alfred is a beautiful nation. A beautiful person. And painful to look at. Because he carries so much pride and power, so much energy and vibrancy. Such light, such radiance. Such _life._

It reminds Arthur so much of his younger self that it occasionally brings tears to his eyes.

This is the America now. This is the America who hasn't had his soul, mind, body, and country viciously crushed and ripped apart.

This is the America they are all waiting to watch fall.

And what is England's position in all of this?

_I don't know. _

Of course you do!

_Now I don't. _

Do you want him to fall, or don't you?

_I like him the way he is. _

But he represents all that was taken from you.

_I'm not so petty as to hate him for that. _

Aren't you?

_No. _

But do you want him to fall?

…

It could be good for him, that's what you're thinking, right?

…_He's too naive and wide-eyed, like a child…_

So he should be destroyed to bring reality crashing down on him?

…_Shut up. You don't know-_

Of course I know!

_Shut up! I would never want that for Alfred!_

But you would want that for America?

…

Arthur's dilemma continues, and has continued, and will continue. He sits beside Alfred, listening to the man's awed 'Ooos' and 'ahhs' with the smallest of smiles. He lets down his guard and tiredly leans his head on his former charge's shoulder.

_It doesn't matter what I think anyways. His destruction is inevitable, one way or another. Leave me in peace and let me enjoy him like this while I still can. _

Say that all you want Arthur, but when he finally falls, you'll be smiling on the inside.

…_.Shut up. _

**This is what happens when I don't edit the thoughts that come out of my head. Usually I like, edit and refine them before I type out a chapter, but here I just let it all spew out. **

**Please review, I'd like to know your thoughts on this weird ass format. **

**Also, each chapter will be a different country's POV on when they were destroyed (either their country or their human persona) and their thoughts on America's impending destruction. **

**Next country is….**

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**

**Edit: I forgot to mention, I used lyrics from 'Boats and Birds' by Gregory and the Hawks and some tweaked lyrics from 'World is Mine' by Hatsune Miku. I'm weird like that. ;p**


	3. When the Rose Blooms

**I can't write France. **

**I just can't. **

**I apologize. T~T**

_Francis Falls when the Rose Blooms _

One petal falls.

It doesn't drift lazily or serenely from the bud of the flower to the table top beneath. It doesn't swirl in spirals or have its red colour shimmer and glow in the light. It just falls. Wrenched from the rest of its brethren and falling without an inch of grace to the weathered table below.

Another follows soon after. And another. And another.

Francis watches it, sipping daintily at his glass of red wine as he does. It's dry, too dry. He likes sweet taste on his lips. Sweetness, tingling his tongue and staining his lips that lusty red colour that's just a shade darker then the rose and a shade lighter than blood.

_Red…_

Hearts are red, red is the symbol of love.

Roses are red.

Wine is red.

Blood is red.

Fire is orange.

"Are you ready to order sir?"

He is caught off guard for a moment and snaps his head upwards, blinking owlishly, but then his well-known nature kicks in and he smiles charmingly.

"_Non, merci," _he replies silkily, looking up at the waitress through long lashes, "I believe you will have to bear with my presence for a little bit longer." The girl flushes a bit around the cheeks, and clears her throat loudly. "Well, _monsieur, _the restaurant won't be open for much longer. If you want to order then you need to do it now." She is fidgeting, adjusting her uniform, looking down with a pronounced blush.

Francis smirks and lowers his eyelids just a tad, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hand and his elbow on the table. "Hm? And what if I'm staying here just for the pleasure of your company?" A small gasp escapes the girl, her hand flies to her chest and she looks down coyly.

It's so easy it almost hurts.

"If the restaurant is almost closing, then I don't have long to wait, now do I," he says with a wink, stroking a fallen petal slowly and languidly, "I'll wait for your shift to end and we can enjoy each other's company for the night, _oui?_"

The girl is bright red, stammering out excuses and dithering around and casting nervous glances over her shoulder. Acting like she's hesitating, unsure. But her brown eyes are full of longing and lust, and she is bringing her legs together and then spreading them apart as she 'fidgets'. Looking so damn horny it's almost pitiful.

His smile never fades, he swirls his finger around the inner rim of his wine glass, eyes still watching the girl with what must be a flirtatious, lusty expression. An expression that he has perfected as his default persona over the course of many, many centuries.

An expression that never fails to land him the girl.

Girl after girl after girl.

Red heads.

Brunettes.

Blondes. (_Oh the blondes~) _

Raven-haired beauties with assess plump and prime for the squeezing.

Petite girls barely into maidenhood with cherries ripe for the picking.

He's had them all. And then some. And those were just the girls.

Wavy locks, framing cheeks still rounded.

Big blue eyes, a nervous flush.

Tanned skin, rippling muscles.

Everyone. Everyone had writhed beneath him at some point.

Does that help justify his status as the nation of love? Promiscuity is nothing new in this day in age, and it is practically a socially accepted norm. Moreover, it is what France stands for.

Him.

France.

Francis.

_Francis? _

He is always surrounded by girls. Or guys. Anyone. Now at least, that is the case. This is, after all, what he stands for now. Nothing more, nothing less. He'll sit here, with a girl wanting nothing more than for him the screw her fidgeting in front of him, with girls and guys alike at different table eyeing him, and with the promise of night after night of lust and ceaseless rutting.

Surrounded.

_Surrounded. _

He is surrounded.

He has been surrounded before, in a different way. Though his smile at the time was the same and the feeling of being slowly smothered was the same.

Surrounded by White. Everywhere. Broken up by tufts of blonde floating in the breeze. The sting of the blade nicking his neck and the burn of Paris, captured and plundered and _English. _

England has him this time. He is being invaded from all sides. His King is insane. The politics surrounding the next heir to the throne are enough to make the strongest man's head spin. His people are weakened from the sickness that ravaged them a century before.

He stands with his head bowed, smothered. The man is smirking, green eyes a lit. Hand pushing forward so that the sword held at his neck breaks the skin.

Where once there were necklaces and amulets, now he wears a choker of red around his throat.

Red like roses.

Like wine.

_Only Orl__é__ans left. _

Laughing.

_That's all. _

All the men, all the people behind him laughing.

_And then you're mine. _

The snow is smothering. The laughter is smothering. He is smothered. Surrounded.

_Surrounded. _

"So you're free tonight?"

He blinks. Where once there was one sexually deprived girl, now there are six. And one boy. They have assembled around his table, summoned by his allure, by his accent, by that look, that seductive, enrapturing look rival to a demon's.

In a flash the smile has returned. The charm has returned. And the memories of the cold and the humiliation and the smothering is gone.

Now, he is simply surrounded. There is a girl in his lap, a girl hanging over each shoulder. Another leaning on the table and another stroking his arm. The first girl from earlier is sitting across, looking both nervous and annoyed, and the boy is sitting beside him, stroking his leg with a peculiar sort of look on his face.

Despite the fact that all the other patrons of the restaurant have left, Francis can't help but laugh internally at the fact that the establishment is nowhere near as clean-cut and ritzy as it made itself out to be.

So he sits in the familiar, comfortable cycle. Of being with people and touching people and people touching him and a feeling of sensuality and of being surrounded that he has grown accustomed to over the many, many years.

Being surrounded.

_. . . _

You hate it.

_I don't. _

You do.

_I don't know what you're talking about. _

England surrounded you.

_Yes. _

They surrounded her.

_Shut up. _

He likes being surrounded. He loves being surrounded by girls and boys and all the those lovely people who he pleasures and who pleasure him back and who engage him in their ceaseless cycle of ecstasy and lust. This is what he stands for.

_This is what I stand for. _

Everything you used to stand against.

_And? _

And?

_What? _

The Lily is the national flower of old France. It is small, white, and delicate. It represents purity, virtue, and faith. It has ties to the Holy Mother Mary and was used to symbolize a women's chastity. Abstinence and innocence in general. It is a symbol from a time when France represented the same things.

It's laughable. Anyone of the new world would have snorted outright. France, _France, _Francis Bonnefoy was once a God-fearing, church praising country concerned with virtue and spiritualism and doing right in the eyes of the maker. This is what he once stood for. This is what he once _was. _

For God.

For the crown.

Until he was surrounded and then he was freed and then everything went up in smoke that smelt of burning flesh and burning lilies.

Because it's easy to be pure when you're a World Power. It's easy to be devoted to God when you're country is on top of the world and everything is going well for you. It's easy to be virtuous when you have no more need for destruction because you have already reached the top.

Francis remembers what if feels like. He remembers what if feels like to have faith, strong belief, spiritualism. To hold a lily in his hand and to feel such a profound sense of pride, happiness, and devotion. Confidence, conviction, loyalty. To god. To his country. To his people.

He remembers it.

And he remembers when it was all stripped away.

And in the cruelest way possible.

Because a plague, he could deal with. He could survive it. His foreign markets have suffered and his population has been decimated but he is a nation and he has been through, and will go through, worse. A disease ravaging his cities and countryside is not something that can bring him to his knees. Not something that can _destroy _him.

No, not that.

Another country, countless groups eating away at his border, burrowing further and further into his land. Capturing his beloved Paris. England-

_Arthur… _

-coming so close to having realized his dream of a dual monarchy under English control. So close to conquering France. The bitter taste and the disgusting feeling of having to kneel helpless as England gleefully shears off all of his hair and then takes him by the throat and slams him onto a stone floor. Doing to Francis what was done to him and what he has done to countless others..

He has never seen such a look of intense satisfaction on Arthur's face before.

But that cannot _destroy _him. No. Not when he has God on his side.

But then there is only Orléans. The last obstacle between the English and an assault on the French heartland. A city that is quickly laid siege to and will certainly fall.

_And then… _

And then?

_Then…_

Salvation?

…_If you could call it that. _

That's what you did.

_Before it burned away. _

The will of God?

_If there is such a thing. _

And then there is a girl.

A girl who should be dismissed as a heretic. An illiterate farmgirl with her head in the clouds. Trying to be seen as important. As a saviour.

But France is crumbling and there is little to no hope. All strategies have failed. All defensive and offensive operations have failed. Soon, Orléans will fall, and then France's fall will be inevitable.

His fall.

_I won't fall. _

Yes you will.

_I will not be destroyed. _

You will be taken. England will have you.

Truly, only a country sure of its own defeat would place its trust in this girl. Would send her to the city that is their last defense and last hope. That is what other nations say.

But Francis holds a lily and presses it to his lips and shakes his head because no it is a country with a strong belief in their God. A country with faith. With belief. That is who would place their trust in this girl. Who did place their trust in this girl.

_I will not fall. God is on my side._

And this girl saves Orléans and sends the English on their way with astounding losses. She marches to Reims and frees village after village and recaptures the city so that a sane King can finally be crowned. She marches to Paris, still freeing villages and people and engages in a fierce battle and displays the most bravery that has ever been displayed in these French battles.

She is a warrior sent by God. A pure maiden, virtuous and full of faith. Filled to the brim with the holy spirit and all that is has to offer. She is the embodiment of the Lily itself. Of France.

She is Francis's most precious, most treasured.

She is captured.

It is not the English who capture her-

_Because God is on our side and he would not let- _

-but the English buy her from her captors. Buy the right to her life. The right to decide what to do with the girl who stole their great plans and great victory right from under them. This female. This not-woman who is yet to come out of her teens.

There is no justification. There is no reason other than spite. The trial is wrong and corrupt in every way and all who bear witness know it. But the English have bought this trial. Moreover, they have bought its results.

Francis watches as she is tied to the pyre.

Francis watches as she requests a cross to be held in front of her.

Because God is on their side.

And God has condemned his prophet to die. For France's saviour to die. For Francis's dear girl to spend her last moment on Earth in searing agony as flames eat away at her flesh and the skin is melted off her bones and her eyes pop grotesquely in their sockets and her short hair is reduced to ashes on the wind.

She doesn't scream.

But Francis does.

Because she is the flower of his country, the Lily that brought them victory. Faith. The beacon of hope sent by God himself. A message to show that he was indeed on their side, despite having forsaken them for so many years.

And then the flower is burned to a crisp. Then the bones are dragged out of the coals and burned again. And once more. (1)

The fire is orange. The red of her flesh is consumed by the raging orange.

England is watching.

England wants to see him break.

England sees him break.

He is screaming, and his fingers are tearing out the hair that has just grown back and tears are streaming down his smoke-blackened cheeks, and all the officials are surrounding him. Get it together. You must be strong. This is unbefitting. It was the will of God.

_It was the will of God. _

He is all-powerful. It must be.

_He willed her to die? _

It would seem.

_My flower? My maiden? _

It was what he wished.

_She was his prophet! Our hope!_

Are you questioning God?

He was questioning God.

For the first time since he had first pledged his faith, he was questioning God.

Because there was no way God was right. No way God could justify taking her, his saviour, his Lily, from the world. No way.

But she is gone. And in her ashes a single white flower sits, before the lingering embers consume it and it too is burned away.

The lily is virtue, purity, and faith. The lily is France, is what France stands for.

The Lily has been destroyed.

And the France that was the Lily is destroyed as well.

/

"Francis? What are you doing out so late?"

Francis turns his head over his shoulder and his eyes twinkle as he sees who has come up behind him. He winks flirtatiously before turning all the way around to face the man who has approached him.

"Just taking a walk after a night of _amour, mon ami," _he purrs, "My hotel room is a bit crowded right now. I thought I'd come out for some air."

Antonio looks slightly confused for a second, before his face morphs into his standard happy expression and he shrugs. "It is a very nice night. America can be very nice, _si? _Even if you can't see the stars very well...But oh! Look! You can see some them! It's really pretty~"

Francis gives a wane smile in response to Antonio's comment, chuckling inwardly as his old and easily distracted friend has his train of thought derailed by the twinkling night sky.

He has to agree though. America is very nice. There is something very unrefined about the country and he happens to like it. The prostitutes in Paris are so upscale, so classy, you wouldn't even think they were prostitutes. They gave off the impression that you were merely sleeping with a high-class woman of sorts. The prostitutes in America were so much more crude and vulgar than that. When you touched one you could feel the grime, the sweat, the touch of every man before you. You could the desperation in their eyes. The _I-don't-want-this-but-I-need-this _look. The look that told you that what you were doing was a sin. That you were both sinners.

That was the look that Francis always strived for, searched for. And America was good for it, even in ritzy, high-class restaurants.

"Hey, Franny?"

Francis once again turns his intention to his Spanish friend, who has finally managed to tear his eyes away from the smog-covered sky to look at him.

"_Oui_, Tonio?" answers Francis smoothly, his voice still silky and seductive and portraying none of the dark thoughts that haunt his mind.

"America is really nice," continued the Spaniard, "I mean, it's really nice, isn't it? The New World. It's supposed to be the place that is free from the destruction that was in Europe in Asia." The man sighs and Francis doesn't comment. All conversation seems to always end in America nowadays. He is quite frankly, the only thing on everyone's mind. The boy always was an attention-seeker, but if he knew the reason for the discussion…

He'd probably shake it off and laugh. The boy was stupid like that.

"Do not forget, it was he who robbed you of your empire in the New World," rebuffed France, turning his head away to stare down the darkened street, "And he is not a country devoid of sin and suffering. He is not a paradise, nor is he blessed. He should receive no special treatment. He should be destroyed like all the rest of us were."

Antonio seems surprised, and he pouts slightly, "I was just commenting, Francis. And I don't think anyone deserves to be destroyed like we were. Blessed or not."

"Not," replies Francis idly, twirling a lock of hair around his finger, "Not blessed. No one is."

There is silence, uncomfortable and thick on the dark street. It hangs between them for a few long seconds, before Antonio sighs and turns away, shaking his head.

"It's not nice to wish pain on others Franny. It's kind of mean. We all know it's coming, but that doesn't mean it's right."

Francis digests Antonio's parting comment with a grim sort of smile on his face, hearing the Spaniard's footsteps fade into the distance until the street is completely silence once more.

_He thinks I'm bitter. _

Aren't you?

_I am not. _

You do not believe the New World was blessed.

_Nothing is blessed. _

Why?

_Because there is no God. And if there is, it is not a God that makes it his business to bless others. _

So you are bitter.

He is not. People can claim it until they are blue in the face but he is _not _bitter. He believed in a God, was devoted to a God, had endless faith in a God. That God took, and delivered and took and delivered. And then he took something that should never have been taken.

Francis remembers the smell of the lily burning, remembers seeing the white petals curl and crumble. Remembers thinking that if this was truly the will of God, then he no longer wished to be a disciple.

When you're a nation, sin is a constant part of your life. You are constantly murdering, destroying, and plundering other nations for all they have. It is almost an understanding. As a nation, you will take on that sin.

Which makes noticeably falling into sin, in a way that was different from the forgivable sins that all nations must commit, all the harder.

In the end, Francis chose the easiest way to turn his back on God. On the being that took his Lily, burned her and burned her again until there was nothing left, not even a painting.

The flower that represented his faith in God, chastity, virtue, innocence. Purity.

Ceaseless promiscuity, lust, and sexual encounters seem like the most obvious course of action.

And the France that is the Lily is destroyed.

And the France that is the Rose-

_Red like blood like wine like love- _

-begins to bloom.

/

Another lovely night.

There were no chance and fruitful encounters in restaurants today, so he is reduced to searching for pleasure and release the old fashioned way. Shopping on street corners is something he only does in foreign countries, and American street corners are always the most expensive of the lot.

But money spent on _l'amour _was money well-spent, _non? _

_Oui. _

But it's really money spent defying God.

_My money is mine to do with as I choose. _

So you don't deny you are bitter and petty?

_My decisions and choices are mine alone. _

It's sad. Pathetic.

_Such is the world. Such is everything. Everyone. Every nation. _

And you will continue in this way? Forever?

_I am France. This is what I stand for. _

The country of false love and red roses.

"Hey! Hey is that who I think it is?"

He freezes. Disbelief mars his face for a moment before his expression morphs into his classic one. A sexy smirk and half-closed eyes. One hand runs itself through his ever-silky hair while another holds a rose up to his nose.

"_Amerique?" _answers France with feigned surprise, turning around slowly, "I did not expect to run into you out here."

America grins and shrugs, placing his hands behind his head and walking forward casually. "Well, y'know, this side of town can get pretty rough. And it's such a touristy city. Sometimes when I can't sleep I patrol the area to make sure no one's getting hurt!" The boy beams and Francis smiles thinly.

Ah, yes, the famous hero-complex. Most nations see that as the main cause for his imminent destruction.

Francis disagrees.

"But y'know, it doesn't happen. Cause we're not like that! Hurting others for no good reason is un-American!"

The boy is going to fall because of his blind faith. Faith in himself. Faith in his country. Faith in the goodness of humanity.

Faith.

_Nothing good comes from it. Nothing but destruction of the soul. _

The boy prattles on, going off about this and that. Voice loud and booming despite the fact that it is something-o-clock in the morning. He waves his hands for emphasis and grins, glasses gleaming in the lamplight.

America at his finest.

It's a little sickening.

_Sickening? _

That's how you find it, isn't it.

_It's pitiful, to see such a powerful nation knowing so little. _

You can't wait for him to fall.

_I want him to see that faith will get him nowhere. His beliefs in goodness and justice will only bring him pain and loss. _

…You really are a bitter old man.

…_Shut up._

**(1) They actually did this. After they burnt her at the pyre they raked the coals away from her corpse and burnt her twice more. Just, y'know, to be sure. -_- **

**So, yeah. This was really hard. I don't actually like France as a character, and I've never made any attempt to write him before. By the end of the chapter I was just rushing to finish the damn thing. I think it sucks. I'm sorry if this is a disappointment. **

**In case you didn't come to the conclusion, the girl he's talking about is Jeanne D'arc. I didn't want to make Francis's chapter about her since that's so cliché, but when I incorporated the bit about the Lily in I liked it a bit more.**

**Oh, yeah, the Lily is the national flower of France. It really does represent all those things. Purity, virtue, faith, etc. Funny enough, I believe it's England's national flower that is the Rose.**

**Again, I apologize for this fail of a chapter. :'( **

**Any guesses for who's up next? **

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**


	4. Into a Lake of Red

**Guys...two reviews last chapter. And one was from my Real Life friend and therefore doesn't technically count. (still love you though) Sad face. Extreme sad face. **

**Thanks for all the faves and alerts though. And the lovely reviews that I did receive. But...review! **

_Antonio Falls into a Lake of Red_

Music.

Dancing.

Laughter.

There is fast and continuous guitar melody resonating throughout the room, reverberating against the walls and bouncing back at him. His ears ring with strumming, the sound of strings creaking and fingers sliding from one fret to another.

_Bueno. _

Tambourines sound and there's a consistent drum beat. The combination of instruments is making it seem like the floor and the room and everything in it are shaking. The beat resonates in his chest and the bells jingle through his ears and around his brain and the cacophony of music wraps him in a thick and comfortable blanket.

_Bueno._

There's the ceaseless sound of feet hitting the floor, shoes dancing across as legs swirl and lift and drop and fly upwards and bodies fly around the room. Long skirts drag along the floor and swish like the sound of a strong wind, followed by the _tap tap _of high heels and the tinkling, bubbling laughter.

_Fiesta._

Antonio grins, clapping his hands along to the beat and tapping his foot against the floor. The shouts and the yells and the excited words in Spanish as people spin and twirl and dip and sashay all around the room send an exicited and proud trill through him.

Like being home.

The tanned skin and curly dark hair and rolled Rs are numerous, but just as many are those with blonde, red, light hair, blue eyes, pale skin, laughing, stumbling along, trying to match the beat.

He smiles.

These people, they came for _experience _for _exotic. _

These people came for _salsa _and _tango _and for a night of _passion. _

They came for _Spain. _

The tempo quickens and the dance floor is a flurry of skirts and frilled shirts and roses and sweet _paella _in the air. With the mix of foreigners the dancing is not smooth and sleek but it is fast and alive and everyone is smiling and joined with one another in one moving mass that is gliding to the beat.

This is the Kingdom of Passion. This is what people think of when they think of Spain. Lively guitar, salsa, passion.

"First time here, _amigo?_"

Antonio tears his gaze away from the flurry of activity on the dance floor. The music and the movement still reverbrate in his ears, and his mind is still in the passion even as he turns to the side and acknowledges the woman who has come up beside him.

"Ah, no it's not," he answers cheerfully, "I come here whenever I can!"

The woman tilts her head to the side. She looks comfortable in the environment, both with her Spanish attire and rolling lisp that gave away her home town as Madrid. Antonio feels a thrill of kinship go up his spine, and his smile widens.

"Oh, It's just the way you were watching the dancing," continues the woman, "You look enthralled by it, I thought for sure this must be your first time here."

Antonio shakes his head, still smiling. Sunshiney Spain smile.

"No matter how many times I come here, it's still amazing," he says wistfully, turning his gaze back to the dance floor, eyes sparkling and smile turning into a full-on grin.

The lady chuckles and nods. "I understand what you mean. That's the Kingdom of Passion for you. This is what's Spain's all about."

Antonio stiffens.

_What Spain's all about. _

The rich red of a dress and a carnation and a tomato and salsa and

It smells like blood.

Everything smells like blood.

The satin sheets, the fine, silk clothing, the bangles of gold, the necklaces and amulets of precious jewels, the bags upon bags of coins, and the body slumped in the corner.

Metallic. Coppery. Salty.

Blood.

Pushing against his boots, wave after wave, lapping up past the expensive leather and to the expensive trousers. The dark maroon colour of his pants stained darker, darker then the red of his jacket, of his hat, of his hands.

_No. _

No?

_Nothing's redder than my hands. _

The chamber is decorated lavishly, every known extravagance and priceless treasure is here. The silk curtains and sheets, the tapestries, the fine clothing, the gold, jewels, amulets, medallions, pendants, piles of priceless chalices and goblets. Plates of that same precious metal, sparkling diamonds and sapphires and rubies. Paintings and art hung meticulously. Some foreign animal chained in the corner, and in the other corner, a girl.

He sits on a chair, a chair covered in a deep golden cloth and with a plush cushion stuffed with the feathers of rare and exotic birds. It's soft. It's nice. He likes sitting in it. He likes everything. He like the ways the jewels twinkle, the gold shines, the wine sparkles.

Sparkle. Sparkle.

He loves it.

Andthesmelldoesn't-

These riches are all his. The riches of Spain. Of someone who has taken and taken and plundered and milked the new world dry of its riches and freedom. Everything is his. Everything _will be _his. The axe leaning against his throne is redredred all around the blade and it will stay red for as long as he needs to hack away at natives and insurgents and anyone who stands between him and treasure.

The treasure of gold.

The treasure of jewels.

The treasure of land.

The treasure of slaves and a whole new people for the taking(slaughter).

And this girl, this girl cowering in the corner. Some country somewhere that is now a colony, a territory, a new _treasure _of Spain. His to take. His to beat into submission. His to strip bare of riches and wealth and individuality until she is his and only his and everything she has is his and only his.

Conquistador.

And everything is stained red and the floor is slick with red and there is blood on his hands that fit comfortably like a glove that will never come off.

The girl raises her head. Dark skin, dark eyes glaring angrily. He smiles. Mirthless. Merciless. The glove of blood molds easily around the handle of the axe and as he swings it down towards her legs she defiantly opens her bloodstained mouth and says-

-"Would you like to dance, senor?"

Antonio stares at the woman standing in front of him. Her breasts are hanging out of her low cut red salsa dress with roses going down the side and along the neck line. Her dark hair cascading down her shoulder and curling in front of her face, stopping just short of a flirtatious smile.

"It's fine to watch, but it's more fun to join in, _si?_" she continues, extending her hand out to him. Antonio stares at it. The soft, uncalloused palm. Light coloured. No tinge of red. No crimson hue.

Not like his.

He pulls his hands behind his back.

"No thank you," he declines politely, "I'm fine sitting here."

The smile is still on his face-

-_the smile is always on my face-_

_-_but the tone of his voice has soured the tiniest bit and the happy sheen to his eyes is just a bit strained. The woman looks put out, and she retracts her hand with a frown before turning around in something of an offended matter.

"You shouldn't have an attitude like that around here," she sniffs, "In _Espana _everyone trades a frown for a smile and is always carefree and happy. Always dancing, and appreciating life. It's the same here, _senor._"

And then she's gone, flouncing away to rejoin the crowd on the dance floor and to meld herself into the beat and the music.

_In Espana everyone is carefree, happy, dancing, and appreciating life._

In Espana everyone is power hungry, god-fearing and have a sense of bloodlust that puts England and Prussia both to shame.

_Was. _

Was?

_Was…that…was Spain. Was. _

But the land has moved on. The people have moved on. Everything has changed and now the ceaseless sun that shines over the land is not harsh, painful and stifling but warm and welcoming and full of life.

Sunshiney Spain.

Bloodstained Spain.

The Empire where the sun never sets.

Because once upon a time, Spain ruled Europe. He _ruled _it. The first one, the first out of all them to have everything. Everyone remembers the British Empire. The one that controlled almost a third of the globe at the point, but he wasn't the _first. _He wasn't the first one to take Europe and to discover America and to have that _power. _

Spain was the first world power.

The first one to hold everything in the palm of his hand. To taste the bitter fall and tears and blood of his conquests. Those he's defeated.

At this time, everything is his. Everyone is _his. _Parts of France, Germany, Belgium, Luxemburg, Netherlands, North Africa, Italy….

And the Americas. The New World, which belongs solely to _him. _

Countries have risen and countries have fallen. Nations take and nations give and nations change and nations disappear. The life is a chaotic circle of conflict and greed. There is always war. Always conquest.

But Spain is the first to have such absolute conquest. Absolute control in so many places. To stretch so far beyond its own expanded borders and to swim in treasure so beautiful and so valuable and it's _all his. _

The blood and the tears of the children. What is it to him? Wild, barbaric countries unused to the European way. Unused to the taking and the plundering and the _this is mine now. You are mine now. There is no choice. There is no alternative. I want you you are mine your land is mine your treasure is mine you are mine. _

Nation-children crying. Crying.

He kills them. Usually with the battle axe. Blood splashes on his face, his clothing, his boots. It coats his hands like it coats his treasure. Child blood.

And he will kill them and hurt them again and again until they learn. They _learn. _

They are conquered. They are his. Spain owns them and Spain will own everything because there is gold and there is land and there are resources and everything will fall beneath him and if it doesn't then it will be wiped away. Until everything is under his flag there will be a ceaseless flow of blood. The smell is everywhere.

The smell that clings, that follows, that is a conquistador.

The New World is his playground. The natives and the nation-children who scream and run but have no choice but to yield beneath him. Because treasure is what he seeks and treasure is what he'll get.

Europe is more serious, is more deadly. The others, they want it. They _want _it. The smell of blood and power that clings to him they _want _it. The title of Empire is his first and his alone and now they all want it. They're all setting sail for the new world they're all fighting and trying to expand but Europe is his and the new World is his and everything is his and no one can take what belongs to him because he wants _treasure _and the world is his _treasure _and he will relinquish nothing until he has taken everything and milked it dry.

Conquest after conquest after conquest after conquest.

It feels so _good. _Spain is a country that has been a mish mash of this and that and has been conquered and rebuilt into whatever those who conquered him wished him to be. Has been two separate kingdoms melded into one, trying to force ideas and people to mesh under one King. Has been taken and changed and taken and changed again and again.

But now he is united. Now he is strong. Now _he _is the one doing the taken.

Plundering.

_Murdering. _

Claiming.

_Pillaging. _

_Hurting. _

_Hurting. _

_Hurting everyone. _

_Destroying everyone._

Everyone?

_Everyone. _

Not everyone.

That's true. There is a child whose blood has not yet stained his axe. A child who hasn't been mutilated and chopped and beaten until they bow their head and cower before him and offer him their riches and themselves and everything they have. There is a child who he has not touched. Not taught the meaning of the word 'conquered'.

Why?

This stupid child who swears and curses and doesn't understand his place. This stupid child who doesn't do as he's told. This stupid child who thinks he can order _Spain _around. Who thinks he can tell him what to do. Who thinks he can talk back to his _Boss. _

If ever there was a child that needed to be put in their place, it was this one. If ever there was a child who needed to feel the sensation of their head slowly being removed with a dull blade, inch by inch, it was this one.

But the child remains untouched.

Why?

A European nation. A hated rival. Now conquered and his to do with as he pleases. A stupid little boy with ridiculously chubby cheeks who eats tomatoes (just like Spain) and who makes the most adorable pout faces ever-

Wait.

What?

Spain was a child once. He was young. He was as innocent as nation-children could be. He liked dancing. He liked running around. He liked being outside in the sunshine.

But then he came and she came and they came and they took and they ripped and they lost and then others took and ripped and lost to others who took more and hurt more and changed more.

And then it was Spain's turns to take and the innocent nation-child is long dead.

_Dead? _

Or maybe not.

_Was beaten to death. _

Not dead. Sleeping. Pushed aside.

Because what the children of the New World could never do, this irritable Italian can do. What their tears could not stir, his pouts can stir.

An amused smile, a slight chuckle. A shared tomato. A closeness that Spain does not have with other nations he's conquered.

Maybe it's because the boy is not pleading for his life. Is not crying at the injustice. Is complaining and pouting but not trying to resist. It may just be cowardice, uselessness, an unwillingness to fight. But the boy does not seem _scared. _

Spain does not need to do anything for people to be scared of him. He smells like blood. His clothing is stained in blood. His hands are stained in blood. Look at him and you will know fear, know death.

This boy is either stupid or blind but it's refreshing all the same. It's nice. Being feared is nice. Having everything is nice. But returning home and not being feared. Of having a single tomato instead of bags of gold. And a little boy who won't cower in a corner or plead for mercy but will curse and turn away haughtily instead.

For some reason that Spain's not sure of, that is much nicer.

But war is continuing and he is tugged and pushed at from all sides. Territories are lost to France and the Dutch and the English infringe on _his _New World. Nations are falling and crumbling left and right, but he will remain strong. He will not relinquish his title as World Power, as Empire, as the top of the world. He will not be destroyed.

Spain is the first to reach the top. Maybe reaching the top means he will never fall again. His Empire and wealth might be threatened, but nothing can destroy him again. Nothing can send him plummeting off his pedestal.

Nothing can_- _

"_Espagna! Where are you?" _

Nothing will-

"_I know you're home, bastardo! Come out!" _

Nothing-

"_Found you jackass! What-," _

Destroy-

"…_..Spain? What…what are you doing? Who…what…" _

Backtalk. Insurgents. He won't take it from his colonies. He never would. A single glare that has spirit and he would beat them within an inch of their life.

So having his New World colonies try to gang up on him and attack him when he gets home is unforgiveable.

He's not thinking of Romano as he punishes them. He's just doing his duty as Conquistador. The handle of his axe is used more than the blade. He wants the pain to last. To truly hurt. A girl has choked on her own blood and is lying eyes wide in the corner. A pair of boys are writhing in pain. Legs broken on one. Arms broken on the other. The eldest among them had her head smashed in. She has since come back, so he'll have to kill her again. Just to make sure the lesson came across. She's the oldest. She probably started it. She has to take responsibility.

The axe goes above his head and then it's down on her head.

And there is blood and bone and all sorts of things lapping at his feet. He is covered in blood and smells like blood and everything is redredred.

The nation-children are dead. They will be back soon. He may punish them again. They still have spirit. He has to crush it. Has to make sure they know who is _Boss. _Who is their master. Who-

"…_Spain?" _

And then there's a weird chill that shoots up his spine.

"_What….are…you…"_

For some reason, it feels an awful lot like fear.

_It can't be. _

It is.

_Why are you here? _

To find you.

_Go back to your room. _

How can he?

_You can't see this. _

Why not? It's what you are, isn't it? Senor Conquistador.

_Yes, but- _

But what? The only one you've been lying to is him. You showed him a side of you that you weren't. Will never be. Spain is not kind. Spain does not laugh easily. Spain does not find his colonies 'cute'. It's a lie. It's a lie. It's a lie. The boy has been lied to and this is you and now he is seeing the man who he thought actually cared for him. The man who will chop off his head with an axe just like he did that girl's.

Romano is crying.

Not tears of frustration, not fake tears. Not cowardly tears.

Tears of fear and heartbreak and absolute horror and terror and tears that he _neverevernever _wanted to see coursing down those cheeks.

_What kind of Conquistador pinches his conquest's cheeks because they're 'cute'? _

In the hallway behind the child is a mirror. With the door open Spain can see himself clearly. The red jacket. The red hat. The red pants. The red shirt. The pants were golden in colour. The hat was white. The shirt was white. Only the jacket was red before. And his hands are dripping and his face has a red handprint from when the girl had frantically tried to stop him from taking her.

His eyes are flinty, cold, bloodthirsty. His mouth hangs open as he heaves for breath. His hair is a sweaty curly bloody mess.

This is Spain.

This is Conquistador.

This is what he is and what he has never shown the boy.

The boy.

_Romano. _

Outside. Walking in the sun that does not seem blistering and hot but it warm and friendly now. Picking tomatoes and napping under trees and doing things that Spain has not done since he was young and innocent. Curling up in a bed that he has never shared with another. Laughing. Laughing and smiling. Always smiling.

Spain with Romano.

He likes that Spain.

He's just realized that he likes that Spain.

He's just realized that he hates the smell of blood.

He's just realized that his axe is too heavy for him to lift.

He's just realized that he can still hear the screams of all the nation-children he's ever killed.

He's just realized the screams make him feel sick.

He's just realized that Romano can smell the blood.

He's just realized that Romano can see the axe.

He's just realized that Romano can see the mutilated bodies.

Romano can see the Spain that Spain is. The Spain that is not Romano's Spain.

He's just realized that Romano is going to hate him. That there will be no more tomatoes and naps and sleeping together. That the Spain that is Romano's Spain will never be again. That the Spain that has Romano will never be again.

He's just realized that it's very possible for a world power and an empire to fall.

Onto his knees, into a lake of blood, with his axe clattering to the ground at his side.

/

"Hey! Bastardo, wait up dammit!"

Antonio pauses and turns his head over his shoulder, a wide smile blooming on his face as he hears a familiar voice behind him.

"Lovi~! I didn't see you there!" he chirps cheerfully, turning around completely. The other man scowls, folding his arms across his chest in his standard position of displeasure.

"The wine bastard and the albino bastard said you'd be in that Spanish dance club," he said sourly, "And I take all that time to grab a fucking cab and get there and you've already left! Inconsiderate idiot."

Antonio's smile becomes sheepish as Lovino moves to stand beside him, pout still pronounced and eyes towards the ground.

So cute. Always so cute.

"Sorry Lovi, but you could have texted me," reminds Antonio gently, continuing to walk with the Italian at his side. Lovino makes an angry noise and turns his head away, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"My phone broke. I tripped and it fell out of my pocket…stupid cheap thing," he grumbles, an embarrassed blush on his face.

Ah, Lovino. Always so clumsy.

"So bastard," continues Lovino, looking up and turning his gaze towards the Spaniard, "What exactly made you leave that salsa club. You can usually stay in those things until the sun rises."

Antonio's body stiffens for a moment before he shrugs and continues walking. "Ah~ I don't know, Lovi. I just wasn't feeling it."

"Finally realized that those American knock-offs can't compare to the real thing?" sneers the Italian, pulling his hands out of his pocket and placing them behind his head. Antonio pouts slightly, looking down at Lovino with a frown. "Everyone's being so mean to America lately. Since the recession," he sighs, "It's not nice."

Lovino raises an eyebrow, looking mostly indifferent. "Mean? I don't think they're being mean. I think that they're contemplating a reality that seems to be fast approaching. The kid's gonna fall. And soon."

"You really think so?" replies Antonio, a worried look on his face, "You think it's inevitable?"

"The country is in shit," says Lovino bluntly, "And not just with the recession. Those Al Qaeda creeps are up his ass. Seriously. Some deep shit is going to hit the fan soon, and America's not going to come out of it well. It's as simple as that."

Antonio winces and his gaze falls to the ground. "So you really think there's no hope?" he says in a quiet voice, "That he's going to be destroyed?"

"America's gonna fall," says Lovino firmly, eyes ahead. "No doubt."

"And Alfred?"

Lovino pauses and once again turns his gaze towards the older man.

"I know you like him," says the boy somewhat quietly, "Despite the war and him taking colonies from you and shit, you like him. Fuck if I know why, but I know that you're possibly the only one besides the eyebrow bastard and the polar bear guy who don't want to see him fall. But it's a part of us. Falling. It sucks, but it is. Our countries are destroyed, and we're destroyed. The two sides of us might fall at different times, but they always fall."

The Italian turns his gaze back to the front, stuffing his hands back into his pocket as he shivers slightly in the night air.

"It fucking sucks, but it's what happens. You can't stop it."

Silence falls between the two men, and there is nothing but the sound of shoes hitting the pavement and the faint sound of cars in the background.

Then Antonio laughs.

Lovino looks up in surprise. "The hell are you laughing at you bastard?"

"Lovi, you're too pessimistic~," chirps the Spaniard with a smile, "But you're right. Nations always fall. At some point, they always do."

Lovino's eyebrow twitches slightly and he places his hands on his hips. "And why exactly are you laughing?"

"Everyone falls," continues Antonio, "But it can be okay. Falling doesn't mean complete destruction. Not always. Not sometimes."

"You don't make any fucking sense. You know that bastard?" grumbles Lovino, shaking his head. Antonio continues to smile.

"It's okay if you fall," he says, softer this time, "As long as you have someone to catch you."

Because the Empire of Spain did fall. Spain was beaten up and destroyed. It happened. Inevitable, it happened.

And when Antonio thought he had lost Romano, he fell.

But Romano caught him.

Romano ran towards him and wrapped his arms around his neck and got blood all over his dress and hands and face as he clung to the man covered in the gore of his fellow denizens of the Spanish Empire. He was crying, but he was crying into Antonio's shoulder. And letting Antonio cry into his.

Antonio fell and his heart cracked and ached, but it wasn't destroyed. His wonderful precious Romano didn't leave him and he got the chance to cultivate and become the Spain that was Romano's Spain. To leave the blood-tinged blood smelling Conquistador behind.

Antonio.

Sunshiney Spain.

When the Conquistador fell, Antonio came back. Nation-child Antonio came back.

_Not _destroyed.

/

Siesta time.

There was something _oh so nice _about a nap right in between a hectic morning and a sure to be even more hectic afternoon. Antonio loves this momentary lull in the days activities. Loves having the opportunity to sit and relax. He leans back, eyes shut and breathing deep and calm.

"Hey! Antonio!"

The Spaniard winces slightly before cracking one eye open. After a moment, he smiles and waves happily at the man approaching him, sitting up against the tree he's leaning against.

"Hola Alfred!" he calls cheerfully, looking up as the younger man reaches him and falls back against the tree.

"Man, it's hot out isn't it? It was so nice last night!" complains Alfred, fanning himself and pulling his shirt up to let air blow onto his shirt. "I wish there was a little breeze or something."

Antonio shrugs and smiles, that constant smile, like the sun that beats down on them.

"It gets hotter than this in my home," he says with a laugh, running a hand through his hair. Alfred blows air out of his mouth, pushing his bangs away from his face. "But you're used to it! Alaska lulls me into a false sense of security every year! It sucks!" The boy thumps down onto the ground beside the Spaniard, sitting under the shade beside the man.

As the young nation continues to complain and bemoan the heat, Antonio watches him carefully, leaning against the tree with half-lidded eyes.

Ah, America.

America is a lot like Spain, Antonio thinks. Not just with the hot weather, but with the personality that is associated it with it as well. Alfred is Sunshiney as well. All smiles and laughter and good-naturedness. He's a nice boy.

_Such a nice boy. _

Why is that again?

_Hm? _

Why is he such a nice boy? Why do you like him so much? Why don't you want him to be-

_Because he's nice. And he reminds me of sunshine. And I got tomatoes from America originally. _

Really? That's why?

_Simple, si? People say I'm a country bumpkin. But it's true. That's why. _

You don't need to be reminded of sunshine. You and you're country are nothing but sunshine.

_But my sunrises are red and my sunsets are red. His sunshine is sunshine that isn't stained with blood. _

He's not a complete child. He's seen war.

_But he's not a monster. And that's something that no other nation can say. _

But he's not without sin. He shouldn't be exempt from being brought to his knees.

_I like being in a country where the sun is golden and happy and not staining the horizon red. _

So you like him because he is what you want to be. What you will never have, Senor Conquistador.

…_Shut up._

**I really like this chapter. Though I'm kind of upset about the semi-sappy ending. I didn't mean to, honest. Blame Spamano being my OTP. **

**I also don't know why Spain likes America. It just seemed right. *shrugs* **

**I don't know too much about Spanish and South American history, but I haven't heard good things about the way Spain treated its colonies down there. **

**And uh...yeah. Please, _please_ review! **


	5. When the Bond is Cut

**I am so upset. Romano is my favourite character and I completely failed at writing his chapter. I just couldn't get it to work. I rewrote the damn thing four times. It's not getting any better. I'm sorry. After all the amazing reviews you left for me last chapter... (seriously, you guys blew my mind with all of those reviews. I'm so glad I seem to be doing a good job with characterization and all of that. Sorry this chapter sucks. But thanks so much for all your kind words and support!)**

_Lovino Falls When the Bond is Cut_

_Tap. _

_Tap. _

_Tap. _

His fingers tap ceaselessly against the table, clicking against the wooden top and sending pings of sound around the room. The noise is surprisingly loud, with the wood being so firm and his nails having grown out so much.

_Tap. _

_Tap. _

_Tap. _

He's in a café. An insignificant by-the-side restaurant that is easily overlooked. Decent décor, decent staff, decent atmosphere, but he can see the food that is being served to other tables and their knock-off Italian food isn't even Italian enough to be called knock-off Italian food.

Lovino is offended, but he can't be bothered to move from the seat he's been hunched over in for the past half hour. Sipping at a lukewarm cup of coffee and taptaptaping his fingernails on the hard wooden table. The hard wooden table that's so hard that his long fingernails aren't leaving any marks on it.

Dammit.

_Tap. _

_Tap. _

_Tap. _

He's not sure why, but he really wants to leave a mark. Leave some sign that he was there. A momento of his feeble existence. That once, an old Italian man who looked like a young Italian man sat at this table by himself with a perpetually half empty cup of lukewarm coffee and an empty seat across from him with his finger taptaptaping on the hard table that wouldn't scratch.

And really, he must look odd to anyone coming into the café. Lovino is not the only one there. Far from it. The café is surprisingly big and filled with all sorts of patrons. Or rather, all of the same sort. Couples and families. And more couples and families.

Couples, sitting across from one another or beside each other. Across and staring lovingly into each other's eyes. Feet sliding and rubbing against each other. Hands clasped on top of that hard, hard un-scratchable tabletop. Beside each other, arms around waists and shoulders and heads on chests and cheeks on hair.

Lovino snorts and turns his head away. He has no problem with genuine love and devotion- he is Italian after all- but the fake, Valentine's Day poster couples that litter this restaurant are sickening. Love as plastic as the cheap-ass cup he is drinking out of.

Families-

Lovino pauses, eyes flickering over to a family five. Parents, three kids. His tapping increases and he scowls as the loud sounds of the whining children and annoyed parents grate into his ears.

_I want- _

_Please-_

_Not fair-_

_Listen-_

_Be quiet-_

Family love, at its finest.

Smiling grimly to himself, he turns his head the other way, towards a family of four.

_Tap._

_Tap. _

_Tap. _

There's only one kid this time, and the parents look a little old. Way fucking old actually. Probably grand parents.

_Tap. _

_..Tap _

…_.Tap _

And the kid is all grins and smiles and giggles and the grandparents are both doing that happy, closed eyed, aw-so-sweet smile and the boy is clambering up on the grandfather's lap and…

….and Grandpa has picked the boy up and swung him around in circles. Because despite all the battles and the fighting his back is still strong. His arms are still muscled and firm under the armour. The little boy squeals happily as he is twirled around and then brought to his grandfather's chest, nestling his head under the man's bristly chin.

_I love you Nonno!_

And the other little boy stands and bunches his pants in his hands and fights a pout and casts his eyes downwards. The _tap tap tap _of his grandfather's boots on the floor as he dances with his grandson around the room. Laughing. Singing.

A perfect family.

Because they have art and singing and dancing and culture. And their ridiculous sense of joy at everything is the same. And even the stupid way they ramble on and on is the same.

Grandfather. Grandson.

And Lovino.

Can't paint. Can't draw. Can't sing. Can't dance. Two kingdoms of uselessness. No bright smiles or cheerful hellos from him. No sir.

Pouts.

Curses.

Te-

"_Lovino?" _

What?

"_Ah, Lovino. How long have you been standing there?" _

Am I that invisible? Unspecial. Un-Veneciano?

"_Bambino, is something wrong?" _

So I'm your kid now? I'm pretty sure I wasn't a second ago.

Or before.

Ever.

"_Fratello! Come join us!" _

Feliciano…You don't want me there.

"_Si, Lovino! Come join us!" _

Don't fuck with me. You don't want me there.

"_I want to dance with Fratello! Come in!" _

You're lying dammit…

"_We'll be the three-man show!" _

Idiot, don't sound so goddamn happy and ridiculous all the time. And don't think that I'm going to get sucked in to this.

"_Yay! Fratello's going to dance with us!" _

Just because I have nothing better to do!

And then there's the taptaptap of three pairs of feet on the floor and two boys being whirled around by one grandparent. One boy laughing and one boy pouting and muttering complaints whilst struggling to keep up with the fast pace his family members have set.

But they're all together, all dancing together. As one happy family.

Joining in the happy family that constantly excludes him.

_It's my family. I can join in if I want_.

It may be your family, but are you really a part of it?

_So they don't notice me sometimes. I'm not such a fucking bleeding heart as to get all huffy over something like that._

Are you sure it's just that?

_Even if Nonno doesn't always see me, Veneciano does. We're brothers, after all._

Brothers? And how thick is blood between brothers anyways?

Thicker than…

Thicker than…

Thicker than this goddamn unmarkable table.

Lovino finally stops tapping his fingernails, tearing his gaze away from that oh-so-fucking happy family all the way over there in the corner. There's a weird burning in the back of his eyes and he hastily wipes it away.

The coffee finds its way from the mug to his mouth, bitter and cold all the way down. It's summer but he's chilled and his body's covered in covered in goosebumps. Lovino hates this café more and more with every passing moment he spends in it.

And it's all those fucking families' fault.

The idea of family is a nice one, Lovino thinks, but he has long since given up on the notion that there is anything so real as a bond between blood or family ties that last forever and can transcend the greatest obstacles. The idea of a tight-knit group of people who are always there for one another and help each other through the thickest of times is too romantic even for the Italian.

He doesn't believe in family.

_Not since then. _

He doesn't believe in a bond of blood.

_Not since that time. _

He doesn't believe in brotherhood.

_Because there's no such thing. Not now. Not ever. Especially not then. _

_That time. _

The world is exploding.

His eardrums are shattered ten times over by the sounds of bombs hitting and exploding. The shrill whistling in the air is constant, the fire shooting up into the sky. The smoke burning his eyes and his throat and his nose.

And the screams.

Everywhere are the agonized screams of those caught in the blast. Of those watching others caught in the blast. Of those watching everything they have worked for, lived for, caught in the blast.

And the soldiers run everywhere, hitting, kicking, trying to pummel the people into submission. Chaos, pain, hate, fear.

Naples, 1943.

The Allied bombing of the area has been horrific. The civilian casualties are through the roof and the damage to the city seems irreparable. Countless buildings of cultural significance have been devastated. Churches destroyed. Statues, artifacts…

And the people run, they flee to the hills or wherever they can get to. Cursing that damn Fascist up in Rome for dragging them into the war that none of them want to fight. None of them ever wanted to fight.

Lovino never wanted to fight.

And now his body is bruised and beaten. A ceaseless stream of blood trickles from his mouth, down the side of his face. His sides and chest are purple and black with the impact of bomb after bomb after bomb. And still, his brother sits up there with their boss. Also not wanting to fight but trying to justify it.

_Fratello, you don't want to be weak again do you? _

I'd like to be able to walk two steps without vomiting blood, if it's all the same to you.

It's like when he was a child. It was always him that was being targeted. Always him that was sought after by France and Turkey and Spain and was constantly fought over. And now, it's him that is bearing the brunt of the Allied bombing. His body that's being destroyed, pummeled. Him that never wanted in this war in the first place.

But he's here, for his brother. He fought, for his brother.

Because _famiglia _is important and brothers are important. And a coward he may be but he'll fight for his brother. He'll take these bombs for his brother. The pain, the screams-

Then there's respite, relief, a glimmer of hope on the horizon. The Fascist-burrito man **(1)** has been kicked out and executed and Italy is leaving the war. There will be no more fighting for some half-assed cause. No more bombs from those American and English bastards.

No more screaming, no more tears, no more destruction-

"_The war is over for us, Fratello…It's finally over." _

No more pain-

"_Ludwig- Germany's boss is not happy that we left…and there are still so many German troops in our country…" _

No more hurt-

"_So? The Allied bastards will be landing in my part of the country any day now. There will be more than enough of then to chase the potato bastards out." _

No more bombs-

"…_.Germany's boss doesn't want us to be with the Allies. He doesn't want to leave anything that will be used against him. And since Fratello's city is the first one the Allies are landing in…" _

No more-

"_What are you saying Veneciano?" _

No more-

"_I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do! And besides, I don't want Germany's boss to be mad at him…" _

No-

"_Veneciano? Veneciano? What the hell are you talking about? You shouldn't have anything to do with that potato bastard now! Veneciano? Fratello?" _

And then it's the end of September.

And everything is a blistering hot coal of agony, pressed into his skin until the flesh peels and lifts away, the smell of burning flesh strong and everywhere.

Because that fucking Nazi issued his troops in Naples one last command, despite the fact that they no longer hold any power here.

If he can't have Italy, no one can. And their job is to destroy the city so that there's nothing left for the Allies to liberate.

And Lovino can't even see straight, can't move, can't think. He's long since curled up in some whole with his bombs and missiles and bullets flying over his head. Ricocheting this way and that. Shrapnel has torn his body to shreds and bombs have decorated his torso a pretty dappling of blues and purples. A panzer division rolls over the already ruined streets and soldiers rush at the remaining civilians. They fight back. They fight back and make their Roman ancestors so, so proud. But there is still screaming and children crying and women wailing as they are taken again and again and again…

And he can feel it. The pain of every single one of his citizens. Everytime one of them dies, he feels it. When a man is chased down and beaten to death, he feels the blows raining down on his already beaten body. When a woman is gagged with her own dress and taken forcefully against the wall of a blown out church, he feels the injustice and humiliation in his own body. When a child has their brains blown out by trigger-happy soldiers, he feels the matter dripping down his own face and the moments of agony and the loss consciousness and the fearful blackness that consumes everything.

And every time he closes his swollen, smoke-reddened eyes he sees his brother, walking away with Germany with the Italian and German troops that left to protect Rome. A half-hearted smile as he still clings to the man who is technically his enemy.

_He knew. _

Smiling.

_He knew this was going to happen. _

"I'll see you later, okay?"

_He knew the bastard was going to do this to me. _

Waving goodbye.

_He went off with the German bastard knowing they were going to do this to me. _

"Arrivederci, fratello_!" _

_Fratello? _

_Fratello? _

_You're calling me your fucking brother when you've left me to die? _

_What do you think is going to happen if they destroy Naples? I _am_ Naples, Naples and Sicily…_

_I'm going to die. _

_I'm going to die. _

_You left me to die. _

_You left me for that potato bastard and you left me to die. _

_Brother? _

_Brother? _

_What am I to you, brother? _

And then there's an image. A memory flashes through his brain. A picturesque meadow with a gentle breeze moving the grass and birds chirping and flying through the clear sky and the Sun not to too hot but with just the right degree of warmth. And in the middle of that meadow are a grandfather and grandson. Singing together, a song about the renaissance, **(2)** while painting beautiful works of art with one another. A perfect family. A perfect, loving family.

Just to two of them. Rome and _Italy. _

And the little boy who bears the titles of the Kingdom of Naples and the Two Kingdoms of Sicily. The little boy who will decide to join with the Kingdom of Italy to help his little brother, ruining his own once flourishing economy and sending him into a life of the underdog. The little boy who will grow up to be Romano.

Watches.

Watches.

He's not Italy.

He will never be Italy.

He is a sad add-on to the country but is not the country.

All he has are Naples and Sicily. All he will ever have are Naples and Sicily.

And the little boy has just realized that, _really _realized that, lying with his chest blown out in a pile of rubble with dead bodies all around and fire licking at his frame. With his people frantically fighting murderous soldiers with no help and no hope. Now, when he needs family the most, he has just realized that there is no such thing as family for him. That it is an illusion. That he is alone.

And his ruined lungs let out a single sob as his burnt hands clutch at his hair and tear out tuffs in agony.

He falls into despair.

He falls into his own aloneness.

He falls because it has been the illusion of brotherhood that has been holding him up, holding him up as he became more and more invisible, as he lost more and more, and now the threads of that illusion have been cut.

He falls.

And he can only scream once before the fire consumes him completely.

/

The day outside is as hopelessly romantic as that damn café was. Crystal clear skies with sparse, but fluffy clouds. Trees blowing idyllically in the breeze with the leaves rustling just _so, _and the sunlight dappling between them.

The couples strolling up the path, the families skipping by happily, they fit perfectly into this blissful summer picture.

Lovino, with his hands stuffed into his too-warm jacket and figure hunched forward, stomping sullenly through the scene, does not.

And he's fine with that.

He is really, really fine with no longer being a part of that ever-caustic illusion. Really fucking fine.

Fine by himself.

Fine alo-

"Fratello~!"

Lovino stiffens and his frown turns into an outright scowl. The Italian stops walking, looking over his shoulder with an unhappy look on his face.

Feliciano ignores it, skipping towards the elder and pouncing on him playfully.

"Ve~, What are you doing out here all by yourself, Fratello? I thought you'd be spending this day off with Antonio!" chirps the Italian, hanging over his brother's shoulders and looking at him curiously.

"And I thought you'd be spending the day with the potato bastard," shoots back Lovino, ignoring the twinge that the statement sends through his own chest. Feliciano frowns, seemingly picking up on the atmosphere for once and sensing his brother's sour mood. The younger retracts his arms and shuffles away sheepishly, eyes slightly more downcast and lips pouting.

Lovino feels the slightest jolt of guilt but turns away and continues walking, lips pressed together firmly. It's difficult to not turn around. The bond that connects them as patrons of the same country makes him feel concerned and attached to the younger whether he wants to or not. Whether his brain thinks he's annoyed by Feliciano's clingy actions or not.

After all, is it that strange for him to want to spend the day with his brother?

But the word brother is like a whip, a chain, searing across his back.

_Fratello, look at this picture Grandpa and I painted! _

_Fratello, Grandpa took me to a huge city today!_

_Fratello, …..I'm leaving with Grandpa…. _

_Fratello, you'll join with me to make a super strong country, won't you? _

_Fratello, I'm going to spend time with my new friend Germany, alright? _

_Fratello, we're going to be allies with Germany, isn't that exciting?_

_Fratello, you can stay here, but I'm going to fight with Ludwig, alright? _

_Fratello, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the attack, but Ludwig's boss would have gotten mad if he'd known Ludwig had given me the information so I couldn't risk telling you! I'm sorry Fratello! _

_Fratello! _

_Fratello? _

_Frate-_

"What?" snaps Lovino irritably, whirling around with fury etched onto his face and hazel eyes narrowed and angry.

Feliciano wilts under the glare and shuffles backwards, kneading his hands together nervously. A surge of guilt immediately pulses through Lovino and he drops the enraged expression, anger fading to just a sour look as he casts his gaze towards the ground.

"What?" he repeats, softer this time.

"I-I just asked what you think of this whole thing with America's debt, and whether or not he'll be able to recover from this," stammers Italy, still shuffling nervously. "I-It's what everyone seems to be talking about, and I'm worried about him, ve~!"

"I think he's going to come tumbling off his pedestal and land on his swelled head," says Lovino bluntly. At Feliciano's horrified expression, he adds, "Don't worry though, I'm pretty sure all the hot air he's holding in will slow the fall. He'll probably just float. Unless all the hamburgers weigh him down."

"Fratello! It's not funny! It could be really bad if America falls!" whines Feliciano, sticking out his bottom lip petulantly.

"We'll recover," deadpans Lovino, "We always do. When one of us falls, when all of us fall. It happens. Destruction is a part of who we are. Sucks to be us, but it's true."

"Everyone's acting like that," huffs Feliciano, "I don't think it's very nice! I mean, it was horrible when we are destroyed or when we fall, right? Why are we so indifferent to America?"

Lovino's eye twitches.

_Shut up. Don't even go there. _

"America shouldn't be exempt from anything," growls Lovino after a moment. "It's just something that happens when you're a nation. He should be happy that it looks like it'll mostly be economy issues that get to him, and not someone bombing his country to oblivion or chopping his body up into little pieces."

_Or betraying him for a fucking potato bastard and rubbing salt in the wounds by acting like you did nothing wrong._

"And besides, it doesn't matter what we think," says Lovino, continuing to shuffle along with his head downcast and his hands once again shoved into his pockets, "It's going to happen regardless. If it's bothering you so much you should stop talking about it."

Feliciano sighs once before turning away, a pout on his face and a watery, upset look in his eyes.

"I just don't think it's fair," he mutters to himself as he begins to walk away, kicking stones on the path as he does. "Can we not remember or something? Don't you remember how horrible it was to fall?"

"Of course I do," mumbles Lovino under his breath, increasing his pace to put distance between him and his 'brother'.

_I fell because you fucking pushed me. _

/

Evening.

The oh-so-sunny sky has faded from an obnoxiously bright blue to a darker, deeper colour. A sort of blue-purple with the last vestiges of sunlight fading behind the horizon. The breeze is finally cool enough to warrant a jacket and Lovino shivers once as he sinks into the collar, zipping up tightly.

The loud sound of leaves whipping up and rustling against one another fills his ears, and he scowls slightly as he looks up at the branches above him with his back leaning against the trunk of the tree.

_Even the trees are loud and obnoxious. Dio, I hate America. _

"Hey! Hey Italy, is that you?"

Lovino resists the urge to groan and let his head drop forward onto his palm. Instead, he burrows his head further into the collar of his jacket and stays sullenly silent, keeping his eyes fixed in front of him and not turning to acknowledge the loud voice and booming footsteps that are racing towards him.

_Speak of the devil and the devil shall come…_

"Hey, Italy!" hails America cheerfully, waving a hand as he comes to a stop beside the Italian, "What's with the long fa- wait. Hey, you're not Italy!"

_Not Italy. _

Lovino winces and he lifts his eyes to give the blonde a single, piercing glare. "I'm Italy Romano," he grumbles, voice muffled by his jacket.

_I'm the fucking Southern half of the country. If you're going to pretend I don't exist and don't matter at least have the decency to _not _do it to my face. _

"Oh…oh!" says America, grin returning as he rubs the back of his head sheepishly. "Sorry, you look a lot like your brother. I guess you guys get that a lot, hehe."

Lovino ignores him, returning his gaze front and downwards, his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. Silence falls between the two men for a few seconds, before America plops himself down beside the Italian, leaning against the tree as well. Lovino grinds his teeth together in irritation, but continues to ignore the younger nation to the best of his ability.

"It's a nice night, huh?" comments Alfred, looking up at the sky with a lopsided grin. "I love nights like this, when you can just sit and…just sit, y'know? Just sit and kind of…I don't know. Just be?"

Lovino allows his gaze to flicker over to the younger once, before bringing his eyes up to look at the sky. The harshness fades and his entire expression softens.

"Yeah," he agrees quietly, "It's nice."

To just be.

_To not think about whether you're existing as a nation or as an add-on to a nation. _

_To not think about whether anyone gives a shit about you or if they only really care about your brother. _

_To not think about…._

_To not think. _

And America, Romano thinks, is good for not thinking. You could say it callously, as an insult, but at that moment, the Italian is loving the simplicity of the moment. The chance to escape all the demons that are constantly haunting him.

Lovino spares Alfred one more glance, taking in the way the young nation is sitting with a wide smile and stars in his eyes.

_It's inevitable that you're going to fall, _he thinks with a grim look, _but kid, I hope it really is just the economy. Or even fucking terrorists. I hope that no one stabs you in the back, runs over your heart with a lawn mower, or plays football with your soul and feelings as the ball. _

Lovino returns his gaze to the sky, sighing tiredly.

_Good luck, kid. You're going to need it._

_**(1) **_** When we were learning about WW2 in Grade seven, my friends and I had trouble remembering the names of 'The Big Three' so we made nicknames to help remember. Benito Mussolini was dubbed 'Mushroom Burrito'...Leave me alone, I was twelve.**

**(2) Ren-Ren-Renaissance. It's Chibitalia and Grandpa Rome's character song. It's fecking adorable, seriously. **

**Alright, be prepared to be bombared with a crapload of history. **

**So the Northern half of Italy was made up of lots of...duchys? I think that's what they were called, but they all joined...or something. My knowledge on this is limited. Anyways, later, the Kingdom of Sicily and the Kingdom of Naples, which were in the south, joined them to make the Kingdom of Italy. Northern Italy became industrialized and modern, but Southern Italy stayed rural and stagnant and millions moved from the South to the North. Kind of a sucky over-all deal for the South. Again, take all that with a grain of salt. I haven't studied Italian history. This is just stuff I've picked up from little conversations or books.**

**In 1943, the Italians overthrew and publicly executed their fascist leader Benito Mussolini and seceded from the war. However, there were still tons of Germany troops in Italy and Hitler didn't want to relinquish the country. The Allies were going to launch an invasion from the Italian boot. Hitler then made one of his famous bat-shit decisions and ordered his troops to destroy whatever was left of Naples. Strategically it didn't make much sense because the city had already been bombed to hell (it was one of the most bombed cities in Italy), so people think it was one of the signs of Hitler losing his mind (courtesy of some cancer-curing rat poison) and wanting to get back at the Italians for leaving. The Italian army had fled the city, and their commanders had disappeared disguised as civilians (oh those cowards) so there was no one left to stop the Germans. **

**However, and I'm upset that I didn't get a chance to fit this into this chapter, the people of Naples rallied together and fought back. In the last days of September, something called 'The Four Days of Naples' happened, where the civilians of Naples managed to hold back the German assault until the Allies made it to them. **

**Guys, a bunch of impoverished, malnourished, beaten civilians. Most of them elderly or women, whoever couldn't flee in the initial assault, managed to hold back a freaking German army.**

**You can call Italians cowards all you want, but the people of Naples are freakin beastly. **

**So, yeah. Long historical note. That said, I'm sorry this chapter isn't any good. Bah. I'm so so upset. Lovino is my absolute fave character...**

**I'm surprised that some of you haven't picked up on the pattern I'm using to reveal who the next chapter will be about. You guys do know who next chapter is on, don't you?**

**...Review?**

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**


	6. In a SlowMotion Descent

**I can't decide if I like or dislike this chapter :/**

**Not sure what you guys were expecting for Italy's chapter. Hope this satisfies! Though HRE=Germany supporters will probably want to kill me.**

**Also, ASKDJSADJLSAJDLSKJDLSJD YOU GUYS ROCK SO HARD. YOUR REVIEWS. MY GOD. MY HEART CANT TAKE IT YOU GUYS SMOTHER ME WITH LOVE YOU ARE ALL SO AWESOME ILU SO MUCH.**

_Feliciano Falls in a Slow-motion descent. _

Cakes.

Cupcakes.

Pies.

Tarts and Candies and little balls of delicious chocolate, rolled up tightly with a tantalizing spot of caramel at the center.

Feliciano presses his face against the glass, staring longingly at the rows of sweets placed directly in front of the store window. The ornately decorated cakes with swirls of icing along the sides. The cupcakes, so covered in sprinkles that he can barely see the fluffy brown goodness below. A variety of pies, with cherries dotting the top of them, sit primly on shelves, with smaller tarts around them. Bowls of candies, Turkish delight, toffee, and spheres of chocolate are situated in various places around the store.

_So many sweets… _

"Like what you see there?"

Feliciano looks up. A man, who appears to be the owner of the store, has appeared in the doorway, standing with his hands in his pockets and a large apron flapping in front of his clothing.

Feliciano stares at him for a moment, slightly taken by surprise, before he grins widely and waves cheerfully.

"Ve~ Very much!" he chirps, swinging around with his hands clasped behind his back. "There are so many different types of sweets in here!"

The man chuckles, an old man chuckle with childish dimples and a roguish glint in his eye. Feliciano feels a twinge as he is automatically reminded of his Grandfather and his smile fades momentarily, before springing back up with renewed vigour.

"Would you like to come in and take a look?" offers the man, stepping aside to allow Feliciano entrance through the doorway. The Italian beams and skips through gleefully, taking in the sweet smell that assaults his senses as soon as he enters.

Feliciano wastes no time as he zooms around the store, picking up pies, pastries and filling the little plasticwrap bags with wrapped candies and chocolates.

_Is this sweet enough? _

_Is this chewy enough? _

_Is this soft enough? _

_Ve~ Need more sweets! _

Humming softly to himself, he zooms around the store, until finally, he plops down the last of his choices onto the counter, in front of an astonished owner who can barely see over the mountain of desserts in front of him.

"You going to eat all these yourself?" he asks, blinking. Astonished.

_Of course not! _

"Ve~! I'm going to eat them with a friend!" replies Feliciano happily.

_I've been waiting to eat them with a friend! _

_Because I promised. _

_I promised, _

_And you promised! _

"_I promise I'll come back to you!" _

And you can't break promises right? _Right? _

_I don't want you to go. _

And I promised, I promised too…

_When you left…_

A faded black cloak, flapping in the wind, is the last thing he sees as the boy disappears into the distance.

Tears, dripping down his face. So many have marched off. So many have gone. Humans, fragile humans. Always marching off to war, always not returning. Nations always come back from war. Strong, immortal nations.

_Grandpa Rome was strong. Grandpa Rome fell the hardest. _

But God is on their side, God is with them.

_You'll come back. _

_You'll come back! _

Praying.

Hoping.

Even though your country has been beaten.

Even though your country has been dissolved.

You promised.

"_I'll be waiting with lots of sweets, okay?" _

That is my promise.

_I'll have all kinds of sweets for when you come back, and we'll eat them together!_

_Cakes and cupcakes and pies and candies and chocolate…_

But you don't want any sweets.

"_I'm looking for a descendant of the Roman Empire." _

I've finally found you and you don't want any sweets?

"_He's supposed to be around here somewhere…" _

I heard you became a new country. That's why you were so busy. That's why you couldn't come see me right?

"_I must be on my guard…_"

Everyone has been saying awful things, saying things like you don't remember. But you promised.

_Promised. _

"_Italy, I'll never forget you!" _

So why…

…..

Is it a game? Are we playing a game? Okay, I'll play too~!

"_I'm the tomato box fairy~ Please don't hurt me!" _

You're playing….

_But I'm scared. _

Don't open the box.

_Don't open the box. _

If you're a scary country, I don't want you to shoot me. If you're _you…_

_If it's you and you don't know me-_

Don't open the box.

Don't open the-

And then there are familiar blue eyes that are darker then he remember and blonde hair in a new style but it's the same face and the same eyes and he can't stop blabbering on and on, even if the hand that has grabbed him by the back of his uniform is firmer and rougher than he remembers. Even if those blue eyes aren't looking at him fondly and those cheeks aren't lighting up in a blush like they used to.

Because without a doubt it's _him _and he Italy can't stop crying because it's _him _and now everything is better because he was _right _and he did survive and he's _right here…_

…what?

Of course I know who the Roman Empire is-!

Remember? Remember? I'm his grandson, who likes pasta and siestas~

"_I'll never forget you!" _

"_I'll never-" _

"_**I-,**_"

And then, there is a sharp pain in Italy's cheek and he finds himself sprawled out on the ground. Dazed. Crying. Hurt. What?

He _punched- _

_Holy Rome? _

_Holy Rome why did you- _

_Holy Rome you just- _

_Holy Rome? _

No.

Deutschland.

And then, as the pain surging from his face through the rest of his head causes him to writhe and whinge on the ground, a chilling reality descends upon him.

_It's not Holy Rome. _

Not anymore.

_It can't be. _

_You promised. _

_You promised. _

_This is impo- _

"-ssible for you to carry all this yourself?"

Feliciano blinks. Then blinks again. Slowly, he tilts his head to the side with his eyes slipping shut, a wide grin on his face.

"Ve~ I'm stronger than I look, really!" he chirps cheerfully, eyes remaining shut as he pushes his arms under the box and lifts it off the counter, much to the surprise of the shopkeeper. Feliciano laughs lightly, before turning and exiting the shop, leaving behind a few bills on the counter.

As he waddles through the doorway, Feliciano pouts slightly. The box really is _very _heavy, and it's a long walk back to the hotel. He could call a taxi, but then he'd have to put the box down, get his phone out of his pocket, pick the box back up…

Feliciano sighs.

He _really _wishes Ludwig were here.

Because he's got those big strong muscles and he's always working with cars so he always carries those big boxes full of car parts around…

So carrying a box of candy and treats would be easy, right?

The Italian huffs, looking up at the blazing sun as he begins struggling down the sidewalk.

He really, _really _wishes Ludwig were here.

Ludwig has always been there for Feliciano, after that first unfortunate meeting where the German had punched him in the face, Feliciano quickly learned that he could depend on Ludwig for anything.

Even if he hated him.

Ludwig was nice, in his own way. He was mostly scary, and ridiculously strict and a neatfreak, but he was still nice. He put up with Feliciano's whining, and his crying, and his cowardice, and the way the Italian depended on him for everything. He always tied Feliciano's shoes for him, and gave him hugs whenever he wanted.

If it was any other situation, maybe, Feliciano could have liked Ludwig.

But the deep, redhot coil that sprung and grew in his stomach when he had sat up, stunned, after being punched in the face by his only love. The coil that smouldered and grew hotter as he spent more time with 'Germany', whilst hiding his feelings behind a happy mask.

_You killed him. _

It hurts.

_You killed Holy Rome. _

The redcoil that is hatred and hurt and heartbreak.

Because this man, _this man, _has his love's face. Older, sterner, but the same. The eyes are narrower, lighter, but the same.

..._How dare you. _

It's not fair.

_How dare you look like him. _

Because you're not him.

Holy Rome became Germany but Ludwig killed-

_My love. _

But Feliciano doesn't like hate, or anger, or any negative emotions. He likes happiness and smiles and love and laughter.

It's all he knows how to do.

_I'm kind of useless that way. _

And it is _him. _He's different and he broke his promise but it's _him. _And at the rare moment when he smiles it causes Feliciano's heart to speed up his cheeks to heat up and when Ludwig wakes up in the morning with his hair down the wave of memory that crashes over the Italian leaves him breathless.

But it's not him.

It's _not. _

And it breaks Feliciano's heart day after day after day after day.

He doesn't want to hate Ludwig, really he doesn't. He doesn't want to hate _anybody. _He doesn't hate any of the people who invaded him when he was younger, and he doesn't hate any of the nations who have been his enemies in wars.

He doesn't like Hate.

And it's almost by accident that he smiles and laughs and sprawls himself all over the German as if they are the best of friends. It's his default reaction. It's how he does everything. He can't help it. He can't stop it.

And at the same time, he wants to be here. He likes it right here, on Ludwig's lap, beaming brightly and swinging his legs happily. He can nuzzle his head under Ludwig's chin and bask in the warmth, closing his eyes and remembering a small hand in his and standing close, two people painting together.

He can remember standing even closer, face pressed to another and body thrumming with warmth. A ceaseless fluttering in his chest and a feeling of love and loss that will haunt him for centuries.

And it really is almost the same feeling. Because it _is _the same body, even if it represents a different country. The same warmth. The same strength. When he closes his eyes, he can pretend that it's Germany _and _Holy Rome, that it's his closest friend _and_ his only love.

But then Germany opens his mouth.

And his accent, his mannerisms, the brusque way he speaks with no cute hesitancy or blush or stammered proclamations of love-

And the coil of _hate _and _rage _and _anger _swirls higher and higher until heat has culminated deep in his belly and sprung up into his chest. Burning his insides and making his cheeks flush and he squeezes his eyes shut, a single tear squeezing out of each corner.

He can pretend. He can pretend. But he hates Germany. Hates Ludwig.

_Hate. _

But, oh god, he can't just _give up. _He promised he'd wait. He promised he'd be here waiting with sweets, waiting, praying, hoping and loving and-

He _promised. _

They both did.

Holy Rome promised he'd come back, and Italy promised he'd be waiting with sweets.

Italy buys sweets every day that he is with Ludwig. Cakes and cupcakes and pies and candies and chocolate….

Holy Rome….

Holy Rome….

Was destroyed.

And his love…

_nothimnothimnot- _

The grownup body of Holy Rome with a mind that isn't his and memories that aren't there and the hole in the man's mind must match the hole in Feliciano's heart perfectly.

He wants to break.

Everytime he sees Ludwig he wants to just break.

But he can't bring himself to. He is a coward. He is weak. He is useless. But he is an optimist, he is passionate, and above all, he prioritizes love and life more than anything else and would run to the ends of the Earth and face any trial for his heart.

And so, ignoring the painful, redhot coil that has taken permanent root in his stomach and chest, Feliciano clings to Ludwig. Clings and snuggles into his chest and smiles up at him and skips along with him and spends every moment he can with him.

Because this is his love. This is his love that is not his love and whose changed mannerisms and lacking memories chip away at his heart more and more each day, but it is still his love. The soul is the same. Feliciano is sure of it. Because beyond the pain, he can't deny the comfortable, content, and general feeling of being home that he gets when he's around Ludwig.

Because he is his love even if he's not.

And the blend of comfort and pain in every single moment they spend together is enough to drive the Italian insane.

_Ludwig is strong and protects me! _

But he killed Holy Rome.

_Ludwig ties my shoes! _

But he killed Holy Rome.

_Ludwig always puts up with my whining and rescues me when I'm in trouble and gives me hugs and-_

Sometimes, Feliciano just curls up into a ball and screams. Tears at his hair, pounds his fists against the ground, the wall, anything. Sometimes, he really can't take it.

Being constantly around the man that is some shabby mockery of the boy he once loved. Of the man who is supposed to be his eternal partner, the one who declared his love and then promised to return. This man, who is the complete opposite of the boy, who has none of the boy's memories. Who has none of the boy's love.

To look into those blue eyes and see _nothing. _

It's torture.

But at the same time, as if the universe hadn't had enough of it's sick joke, Feliciano couldn't bear to be apart from the man. Be away from that twisted and warped sense of comfort that he got from being with him. That _need. _That it-is-you-even-it's-not-you-I-hate-you-I-love-you.

Can't live with you can't live without you.

Sometimes Italy wonders if it's retribution from God. If this torturous cycle is some sort of repentance for all the evil his country has committed in the past. He knows all nation's have gone through it, this retribution. Whether they called it divine punishment or 'falling' it was still the same thing. Just because they were nations didn't mean they were above judgment. And it made sense that for their greater sins, there would be much greater punishment.

Feliciano just wonders what exactly it was that he did that he has to suffer so much.

Because for Italy, it is not one decisive battle or one event. It is not an army falling, a country falling, or a beloved human falling. It is not one thing that shook his world.

It's every day.

It's every single day.

Every day, he walks forward with purpose, with as much life as he can muster. Everyday, he moves thinking _next time I meet him he'll be Holy Rome. He promised he'd come back to me. He promised. _

Everytime he sees Ludwig, his heart soars.

Everytime Germany speaks, it is shattered into a million pieces.

Every moment he spends with the blonde, it's like someone's digging a knife into his heart slowly, inch by inch. But the knife's blade is drenched in a drug he's addicted to, so despite the pain he lets it go on.

_Forever. Forever this pain. _

The sensation of falling is constant. Like there's a huge pit yawning beneath him. Ready to swallow him whole. His heart is chipped away at more and more.

Soon there will be nothing left.

And he'll succumb to the slow-motion fall he's been in for the past century.

The fall that never ends.

The pain that never stops.

_My first love story. _

_Just the breaking of my heart. _

/

"Hey West, are you- _schiesse!_"

Feliciano shrieks and jumps, whirling around at the loud voice that has suddenly boomed around the kitchen. The wooden ladle he was holding clatters to the floor, sending a spray of batter onto his pants and a pool of it onto the floor.

The Italian ducks, his hands over his head as he crouches down, whimpering and muttering surrenders and pleas for his life.

"Feli? Is that you? What are you doing in here?"

Feliciano cracks an eye open, peering up hesitantly. He's met with a pair of red eyes, staring down at him curiously from beneath a shock of white hair. The suddenness of the man's appearance in front of him causes Feliciano to shriek again and scurry backwards, before he registers the intruder's identity and relaxes slightly.

"V-ve, hi Prussia!" he stammers, his heart hammering in his chest as he attempts to calm his breathing.

_Why do people always sneak up on me?_

The older nation rolls his eyes, stuffing his hands into his pockets and moving backwards away from the Italian.

"Honestly Feli, you're way to unobservant. West can hear me as soon as I come through the front door!" teases Prussia, leaning with his elbows on the counter and his head tilted to the side, his default roguish grin plastered on his face.

Feliciano smiles sheepishly, before slowly getting to his feet, picking up the fallen ladle as he does.

"Ludwig is very observant~," he hums softly, skipping over to the bowl he had been stirring before Prussia's sudden arrival. Feliciano moves to the other side of the counter, still humming under his breath, so that his back isn't to the other occupant of the room. He wipes the ladle off with his previously spotless apron, and resumes stirring, flashing Gilbert a wide grin as he does. The man isn't looking, however. His attention is glued to his phone, which he has just pulled out and is now clicking away at with an almost manic look on his face.

"I've been playing this game forever," he says, supplying the explanation that Italy never asked for, "I had this killer high score, but then that _dipshit _America beat it! I was so pissed! Now I gotta beat him. My awesomeness is at stake here. I need to make it known that _I _am the best at throwing angry birds across the screen."

Feliciano laughs softly, smiling fondly at the other man. Then, he pauses and frowns, tilting his head slightly as something occurs to him.

"Gilbert," begins Feliciano, a questioning look in his eyes, "Is America alright? I know lots of bad things have been happening to him lately, and I've been really worried!"

Gilbert's eyes flicker upwards before returning quickly to the screen, the albino shrugging his shoulders once.

"The kid's in deep shit. You know that. Not saying he can't get out of it, but right now he's kind of screwed. He still plays online with me but, well, you know him. He doesn't take anything seriously so him wasting time on the Internet doesn't necessarily mean that he's _okay_."

Feliciano frowns, and Gilbert curses violently as he looses his last life and tosses his phone down angrily.

"Goddammit, even talking about that brat gives me bad luck," he swears, pouting childishly, "But honestly, he needs a wake up call or something. He can't go around like he's been doing. America's like an overgrown kid that won a tournament against adults and received these kick-ass football cleats as a prize, but has no idea that you're not supposed to walk across floors with them and ends up scratching up everything and stomping on people's feet, ruining flowerbeds and just generally screwing everything up."

Feliciano is silent, bottom lip quivering at Prussia's harsh words.

_But he still doesn't deserve…_

Deserve to have reality brought to him?

…_Doesn't deserve to fall. _

Wouldn't that bring reality and sense? Wouldn't it better him?

…_I don't want him to break. Not like m-_

Gilbert huffs loudly, finally lifting his gaze upwards. The albino raises an eyebrow, leaning forward and then blinks, surveying the whole room.

"Whoa!" exclaims Gilbert, jumping and taking a few steps back, "Feli, what did you do to our kitchen?"

Now it's Feliciano's turn to raise an eyebrow, and he pushes down his troublesome thoughts and laughs softly. "Ve~ Now who's being unobservant, Gilbert?" he teases, continuing to stir the bowl while Gilbert gapes around his captured kitchen.

The normally spick and span German room now has cakes, cupcakes, and other baked goods on every counter. They are all covered in icing and sprinkles and chocolate flakes, much of which is on the floor or spread on the marbletops.

There are rolled balls of chocolate sitting neatly on tin foil, and the oven is hot, still soft cookies just beginning to heat and cook within.

The room has been engulfed in sweets.

"Oi, Feli," growls Gilbert, folding his arms across his chest and glaring, "Any reason you decided to turn our _manly _kitchen into a Martha Stewart Easy-Bake Oven?"

Feliciano pouts at the analogy, but then smiles widely and waves the batter-covered spoon enthusiastically, the substance splattering around even more than it had been previously.

"Ludwig's been working really hard," he says, lips downturning into a slight frown, "So he probably hasn't had any time to eat anything nice! Ve~ I went to a sweet shop and bought lots of yummy things, but homemade stuff always tastes better, right? And Ludwig is always going on about being healthy, and homecooked food is healthier, right?"

Feliciano blinks his doe-like brown eyes, bottom lip protruding slightly as he stares at Gilbert for confirmation that, yes, Ludwig _would _love this.

The Prussian freezes for a moment, looking uncomfortable and slightly exasperated.

"Feli, you're always bringing a crapload of sweets over to West. He never likes them. I mean, _I _like them, so keep bringing them by all means. But…if you're trying to impress my brother, don't you think you should maybe try something else?" Gilbert looks awkward, like he can't believe he just said something halfway responsible and the taste of it is leaving a bad taste in his mouth. He scratches his head, his other hand inching towards a cupcake as he waits for Feliciano's response.

_No more sweets. _

Feliciano's grip on the ladle tightens.

_Don't give him anymore sweets. _

The Italian makes a soft sound, almost like a whimper, before beaming and laughing loudly.

"Ve~ I couldn't do that! It's not good that Ludwig doesn't like sweets! Ve~ And I like making him sweets! I don't make them or buy them to impress him! I do it to…,"

He falters.

"I…."

The ladle comes to a rest down on the counter.

_I do it…_

Why?

_I do it because…_

All these useless sweets. All the time you spend on them. Why?

_Because if I keep my promise maybe Holy Rome will keep his. _

Oh.

_Oh. _

And that's it, isn't it?

As long as there is a chance. As long as there is any hope that _he _is still in there. That _he _will come back to him. That _he _will remember.

That sad, sad, hope.

The hope that only serves to speed up his perpetual free fall into an ever-deeper pit of despair.

"Ve~ I do it because I have to!"

/

The sun was setting.

Feliciano sits on the wall, swinging his feet over the edge as he smiles into the air, the day still warm and nice even as it reaches its conclusion. There's a breeze blowing, and with it is the smell of asphalt, street vendors and pollution.

The Italian wrinkles his nose in slight displeasure, but keeps his eyes on the horizon and the great blazing orb that is sinking beneath it, his smile returning as he takes in the majesty and beauty of it all.

His stomach is churning slightly and he feels a little giddy, all the cakes and chocolate he had eaten still rolling from his system. When Ludwig had returned to the suite, he hadn't been pleased about the sweets-

_-he never is he never cares all the work all the love HE used to love my sweets-_

-and had made Italy clean up everything. Feliciano and Gilbert had had to eat most of the treats themselves, because Ludwig didn't wany any and didn't want the sweets staying in the room. Because sugar apparently attracted bugs.

The box with the remaining cakes, cupcakes, pies, and chocolate sits at the base of the wall, painfully full and a reminder of the harsh reality of Feliciano's situation.

And the futility of his hope.

The Italian sighs, leaning back on his hands and closing his eyes. His chest is practically pulsating with the redhot pain and hate coursing through it. Tears burn the back of his eyes and he grits his teeth, digging his nails into the wall until he can feel them crack and break, the skin chafing and scraping painfully.

_I can't- _

_I'm going to- _

"Italy?"

Feliciano's eyes shoot open and he sits up, looking down in surprise.

"Ve~ America?" he says questioningly, blinking back the wetness and staring down.

The blonde, blue-eyed teenager grins and waves enthusiastically.

"Hiya there Italy! What are you doing way up there on that wall? And, hey, are you crying?"

Feliciano makes a surprised noise and quickly wipes his eyes, a huge smile automatically lighting up his face as he waves back.

"Ve~ The sunset was just so pretty! It made me all teary-eyed as I was looking at it!" he says enthusiastically, looking both sheepish and wildly happy.

America grins, winking and shooting the Italian a thumbs up. "Hehe, those are my skies! The best in the world, you better believe it!"

Italy continues to smile as America continues on about this and that, eventually climbing up onto the wall to sit beside the other nation. The brunette's smile never wavers, only widens or softens with what the younger man says. His sentences are peppered with ditzy 'Ve~'s and his eyes are wide and innocent as he alternates his gaze between America and the sunset. The blonde is similar, always grinning wildly, slang saturating his speech and those wide blue eyes as wide and blue as can be.

The two happy, ditzy, oblivious nations.

_Everyone says that's a bad thing. _

_Everyone says that's irresponsible for a nation to be. _

_But we'll break. _

_If we're too serious, if we let everything get to us, if we drown in our sorrows. _

_We'll break. _

America laughs. Loudly, heartily. Straight from his stomach. A genuine, happy laugh.

_I wish I could laugh like that. _

_I wish everyone could laugh like that. _

_But he's the only one. _

_Why do they all want him to lose this so badly? _

Feliciano closes his eyes, letting America's prattle fade into the background as he fights to keep back tears, his usual optimism and happiness not coming to him as easily as it usually did.

_Why? _

_Why? _

_Why does it have to be like this? _

_Dear Heavenly Father, I am sorry for our sins. _

_But please, _

_Why do we have to fall like this? _

_Why does he have to fall?;_

**Again, not sure how I feel about this chapter. There's something off about it. :/ **

**Anyhoo, what did you guys think? Italy is the main character of Hetalia so I'd really like your thoughts on his chapter. Also, this was my first time writing Prussia. I'm terrified of next chapter. He's a character I think is secretly very hard to write correctly. **

**Oh. **

**One more thing. **

**Um...here's the thing, just so you know I'm not doing a Germany or Russia chapter. Because...many reasons. Because I can't write either of them. Yeah.**

**Also, I'm ashamed to say I used lyrics from Gee by Girls Generation, and from another song I really can't remember. **

**I'm positive there's was more I wanted to say in this note. Oh well.**

**Please review! **

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**


	7. Into His Own Darkness

**Why hello there late update. You're late. **

**But seriously, you guys have been spoiled. You've been getting an update every week. A good update time for me is usually every three weeks. This update was actually normal for me. -w- **

**And GAAAAAAAH. I got some truly awesome-tastic reviews for last chapter. I'm actually going to reply to all the reviews from last chapter, but tomorrow. I'm actually supposed to leave the house in like, now, so I'm posting this in a hurry. I don't usually reply to reviews, but I got such amazing reviews for last chapter, I kind of have to. **

**I'm strangely detached from this chapter. I don't think I like it, but I don't think I dislike it either. **

_Gilbert Falls into His Own Darkness_

_Cheep! _

_Cheepcheep! _

_Cheep!_

Gilbert grins, wiggling his finger through the bars of the cage as he stares at the fluffy golden ball within it. Tiny black eyes stare inquisitively back and he lets out a little laugh as the bird hops forward and pecks at his finger.

_So cute! _

All around him are the sounds of kittens meowing and purring and puppies barking playfully. The pet store is full of cute baby animals and the small sounds that they make. Whether the sound is whining for attention, food, or just to proclaim their joy at life.

_New life. _

Gilbert's smile remains as he straightens up, stepping away from the birdcage and allowing his feet to take him to another section of the pet store. The smell of wood shavings and the creak of a hamster wheel alert him to the fact that he is heading towards the rodent section. Generally he prefers little birds, but little mice and little rats and little _anything _are still nice.

He _loves _cute baby things. Prussia might be a war-like conquering nation but he loves nothing more than staring at a fluffy little puppy with its eyes half open and its pink tongue curling as it yawns, or at a fluffy yellow ball of a chick with stubby wings beating excitedly.

_New life. _

_As opposed to-_

_Piyo! _

The sound of his own bird, chirping away from the top of his head, pulls Gilbert away from the direction his train of thought was taking. The eternal chick is peeping away, calling out to the other young birds in the store. Gilbert grins again, reaching up to give his bird a soft pat on the head.

His baby bird is his most prized possession, really it is. Moreso then his iron cross or his walls and walls of journals, the bird that at some point gained the title 'Gilbird' is what the Kingdom of Prussia treasures most. Because a bird, living forever in the form of a baby, for him, represents a type of never-ending life.

_Life. _

The reason he loves all young things.

New life.

_As opposed to-_

"Sir? If you're not going to buy something I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Gilbert's happy grin is wiped off of his face and replaced with a scowl as a reedy, annoying voice pipes up behind him. The Prussian man turns and glares down at the employee who has managed to sneak up on him, standing there with an officious, annoyed look on his face.

"What? Can't I guy just look at cute animals in peace?" he grumbles, folding his arms across his chest and narrowing his eyes. The man looks like he's about to make a sharp retort, but then stumbles back a step, something that looks a whole lot like fear flashing in his eyes.

_Fear. _

Because there is something about Gilbert. Something about this man in front of him with white hair and red eyes that is scaring him.

_I wonder what it could be? Hm? _

This albino man with the yellow bird sitting in his hair.

_Something…what is it…what could it…_

Oh.

The little baby bird is cute. It is young and cute. Looking at it the chick simply appears to be life and living and life. And then the man that it's sitting on. The man that is…

_Death. _

The metallic smell of blood, hanging heavily in the air. Where a minute ago there was screaming and metal clanging and shouting and the pounding of hooves on dirt, now there is only silence. Silence and a heaviness in the air, as if the weight of the blood that has sprayed and saturated the ground is pulling the atmosphere down as well. The thick and cloying scent is almost tangible and the area has a desolate and deserted feel.

Bodies litter the ground. Piled atop of one another, clumped together, all over the plain. Bodies curled up, bodies spread-eagled. Limbs mangled and bent and detached. Dirt churned up and dark red, mixed in with spilled innards and brain matter and all the things that should be inside and not outside.

_Death. _

_Destruction. _

_Death. _

He stands.

His boots squelch into the bloody dirt.

_Squelch. Squelch. _

Human matter going _squish squish squish _under his feet. Stepping onto the life blood of hundreds and thousands of soldiers. Hundreds and thousands of young men whose lives are no longer. No longer theirs. Never theirs. Now for war. Their lives are for war. Their lives are to take the lives of others. Their lives are to throw themselves onto swords and throw others onto swords and to claw and to stab and to kill. For war. For country. For leaders. For conquest. For victory. Their lives.

For War.

_Their lives are…_

Their lives are beneath his feet, mixed in and squelching with the dirt. Insignificant. Unidentified bodies and forgotten names. One disfigured face is the same as another. One severed arm looks almost the same as a mangled severed leg. All the gaping expressions of agony, eyes bugged out and mouths stretched wide. Screaming. Yelling. Shouting out for life. For one more moment. One more breath.

Then, death.

The silence is deafening.

The only sound cutting through the thick fog is the _flap flap flap _of wings moving quickly. Pumping the blood soaked air up and down. The bird with the black wings and the black feathers that whistle as a ghostly wind passes through them. Bird of death, bird of carrion. Black. Like the bird on the Prussian flag.

Because this is a situation, a place, that Prussia finds himself in often. Standing in the middle of a battlefield, surrounding by the dead. By the death. By the war. Prussia is always fighting and he is not Prussia if he is not fighting.

_War. _

Even as the Teutonic Knights, a Holy Order, his mission was to subjugate and punish those who didn't follow the will of his god. To murder and maim the 'sinners'. To invade the countries that did not bend to the words of his religion and who turned their heads away. To convert them, or destroy them.

_Death. _

Prussia.

Prussia is war.

War is….

_Fighting. Riding into battle. Glorious battle cries and heroics. _

Don't make me laugh.

_War is killing the other person. Making sure the other side doesn't get back up again. _

So war is…

_Death. _

_War is death. _

Then Prussia is…

_Prussia is death as well. _

_Death personified. _

With hair the colour of a lifeless corpse and eyes the colour of lifeblood like the blood soaked into the ground and squelching under his boots.

_Death. _

As opposed to…

_Cheep! Cheepcheep! _

Gilbert blinks, and the chirping of little birds and the mews of kittens and yips of puppies bring him back to the now and the present and the living.

The man who was previously haggling him is still there, looking intimidated and like he's going to wet himself at any moment.

_Staring the personification of death in the face can do that to a person._

"Look man," says Gilbert, shifting his weight onto the other foot and rubbing the back of his head, "I don't want any trouble. Can't a guy look at baby chicks in peace?" He immediately grimaces at the statement and curses inwardly.

_Dammit, that came out more perverted than I intended._

Death is a perverse thing.

"Sorry sir," says the employee, voice wavering, knees shaking, full of fear.

_Because humans fear death and nations live on through death and you _are _death- _

"But I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Gilbert scowls, but reluctantly pulls himself away from the bird cages, shoving his hands in his pockets and skulking out of the store, his sour look fading into a mournful one as the sounds of the _cute, adorable, lovable _baby animals fade into the distance.

And people might give him funny looks because of it, but Gilbert, an albino man with a scar down his right eye and plenty more hidden beneath his clothing, _loves _baby animals.

Death loving new life.

Ironic?

_No. _

Foolish.

_No! _

Then what?

_It's just…_

Prussia, the Kingdom of Prussia. The Kingdom of Death.

Master of destruction and war. Of conquest. Of the repetition of pain and terror and the mess of matter and blood on the battlefield.

Prussia is death.

_And I know that. _

You know it?

_Yes. _

One wouldn't think it, to look at you.

_What, am I supposed to dress in black and hold a scythe? Gimme a break. _

So you pretend?

_Pretend _what?

That you're alive?

_No idea what the hell you're talking about. _

You surround yourself with the living to pretend you don't embody death, is that not true?

…

That's why you love baby animals, isn't it? Because they represent life's beginning and you represent life's end.

_I love them because they're cute. _

And because they counter the darkness that is you. The evil that is you.

…

The root of all evil. That's what England's boss called you, right? The reason they came to that decision, right?

_No. Because I'm strong. Because I'm awesome. Because I'm a powerful, strong, kingdom that is awesome and they couldn't handle that._

They killed you because you are death, and bring more death, and only cause death. Because a world with Prussia is a world with war.

_That…_

Death when life is strived for. Pain when love is needed. Despair in place of hope. That is what Prussia brings.

That is what you did to _him _right?

Ah yes.

That child.

Because though he is death and war and destruction and pain the nation known as Prussia can love and did love.

That child.

Little boy, little nation-child. Blonde hair, blue eyes, wearing all black with little white to Prussia's all white with black here and there. So similar to what Prussia was, starting off as a Holy order with a Holy purpose. Growing bigger and stronger and taking nation after nation into his house. So strong. Such a purpose. So young. Named to be strong. After that empire so long ago that was oh so strong. With the title of 'Holy' at the front because his is a mission from God and his is an empire from God and he will rise and push and convert for that. For his strength.

And though the child is young and awkward and unsure he is being pushed and pressured and told to keep fighting to get bigger. Because the Teutonic Knights fought and fought and now Prussia is a huge Kingdom and he wants the same for his beloved little brother.

War.

Death.

_It's okay, God will forgive you. You have a purpose, and it's to be strong and rule over everyone else. Just like your brüder. Keep fighting. Always keep fighting. _

Fight.

Fight.

Conquer.

Destroy.

Subjugate.

And eventually…

_Fall. _

Black hat. Trampled, bloodied, covered in mud.

A voice. Snide, contemptuous, satisfied.

"_It is inevitable, non? Those who get to big will eventually topple in on themselves."_

He grits his teeth, clenches his fists.

"_Damn you…" _

And he cradles that child. That broken and bloodied nation-child who followed his brother's lead and followed the way of death and destruction and war. Who grew too big and fell too hard.

_The Prussian way. _

_Death breeds death. _

_Pain breeds pain. _

_That is what you bring. That is what you are._

_Your way destroyed this child, and now the Holy Roman Empire is no more. _

And if Prussia was a human and not a personification of death, something would have truly broken and something would have truly cracked. But he is who he is and he responds by moving forward and taking the broken child's hand and pulling him along.

Memories are gone.

Self is gone.

But the child is still here and that is enough. That is enough for this nation who will take anything and anyone and make it is. Do anything to bend everything to his will.

This child will live.

_Because I say so. And what I say goes. _

This child will live and will live through life, not through death, like his brother previously instructed him to.

And when that Bonaparte bastard is finally kicked on his feathered little butt, a new Confederation comes forth, and then years later, Prussia takes that Confederation and makes an empire. A new German Empire. A new German empire with a solemn face and blonde hair and blue eyes and who had a big brother who told him to 'fight when you have to and only fight for life.'

_Let it never be said that Prussia does not learn from his mistakes. _

But mistakes happen anyways, and so does war, and so does death. And one death in particular is so great that it causes the war to end all wars and because of blame-shifting and mistakes the guilt for that war falls squarely on that little boy. That little nation-child who is now a man who's solemn face is serious and blue eyes that are narrowed with injustice.

And Prussia is upset because he never wanted to see that blonde head marching off to war again, let alone a war this large, let alone a war that would be blamed on him. The death of millions blamed on him.

_But then it happens again. _

_And it's _worse.

Prussia is war and _deathdeathdeath_.

The Holy Roman Empire was conquest and _deathdeathdeath_. Kill all. Kill everyone. Whoever was not under their God.

Germany was supposed to be different.

Germany was supposed to be _life. _

Not death.

The opposite of Prussia.

_Life, goddamit! _

And instead…

"_Six million Jews! Six million innocent people! How the hell do you plan to answer for that?" _

Gassed. Shot. Starved. Beaten.

"_Work camps? Concentration camps? Death camps more like it." _

All these new methods of death.

"_Did you really expect the world to turn a blind eye?" _

The practice that Prussia is supposed to excel in.

The practice that Germany was supposed to have no part of.

_Death. _

_I am… _

"_And as for you, Prussia." _

_Have always been…_

"_As of this moment…" _

_The root of all evil. Nothing but death._

"_You are officially dissolved." _

And there is nothing but a dull, numb feeling in his chest. The words enter, they circulate around his brain, but there is nothing but acceptance on his part.

_When it's good vs. evil, evil must be vanquished. _

Those blue eyes, so stern, so serious, now sparkling with tears.

Gilbert smiles.

_If I'm gone, maybe you can finally live, no longer haunted by the personification of Death._

Happiness.

_Yeah. _

Happy to be dissolved.

_Can't darken my brother's doorstep forever, now can I? And the world, the world's doorstep as well. We're moving past that 'constant war' stage, and well, I'm too awesome to sit still and twiddle my thumbs because of a bunch of treaties. I'm war. I need to be at war. For the peace of the world, and so I don't go crazy, it's better to just...not be here anymore._

And there's a small part of him that likes the idea. To pass on to fabled legend like the great nations before him. To be known and spoken of with reverence like the Roman Empire. So powerful. So strong. The Kingdom of Prussia, staying strong into the 20th century until he finally takes his rite of passage into the afterlife, following the great empires before him.

But it didn't work.

…

Your last chance at redemption failed.

…

Because you can't kill death.

…

And Prussia has never been more bitterly disappointed, more hurt, more anguished, than when he wakes up the next morning and still exists. When that corpse-white hair and lifeblood-red eyes are still there and he is still there and _death is still in his brother's life. _

A living wraith, perpetually there.

_Live as death. _

_Forever. _

_Your burden. _

_Your sin._

Prussia is war

Prussia is death.

Now he lives in a world where War and Death destroyed his beloved little brother for a second time. A world where Prussia is weak and War is frowned upon and Death is avoided at all cost. A world where an existence as War and Death is a futile existence. A sad existence. A pitied existence.

For a nation that once conquered most of Europe.

For a nation whose pride as a warrior is so fierce and bright that it is almost tangible.

For a nation who lives to fight. Who is proud of fighting. Who is proud of himself.

For a nation who once stood at the top of the world.

This is enough to tip him over the precipice he's been teetering on for years and send him plummeting down into the darkness of his own existence. The existence he will not escape in a blaze of glory or as a revered empire, but as a fallen nation hated and scorn by the rest of the world and a perpetual burden to the only person he's ever loved.

_Falling…_

_Falling…_

_Into darkness._

/

"Good morning Hunga-ah!"

Gilbert blinks, looking down from the doorway he is currently booby-trapping to the wide-eyed Asian nation standing below.

"Oh, hey Japan," he says casually, finishing the knot in the string he is tying, "What brings you here? Come to bask in my awesome presence?"

Japan blinks and tilts his head curiously, before politely averting his eyes from whatever misdeed the other nation is committing.

"Actually, Prussia-san, I was looking for Hungary-san. This is her room after all," he comments, his eyes suddenly very interested with the carpet of the suite. Gilbert laughs, that strange hissing laugh that he's famous for, and winks one eye at the island nation.

"Well clearly, she's not in it. You should check the young master's room, or wherever there are two guys cuddling. You know _her_. The two of you are both into the same perverted stuff, right?"

Japan coughs, his cheeks heating up as he diverts his gaze to the side, suddenly looking very uncomfortable as he splutters denials. Gilbert can't help at snicker at the man's scandalized expression.

_Accept who you are, man. It's the easiest way._

"Relax, I'm just kidding. But seriously, check Austria's room if you're looking for that man-woman. She's probably listening to him play a prissy sonata or some shit." Gilbert huffs at the mental image that comes to mind. Of the two nations he has been running around in circles with since his youth. Together. Without him.

_Whatever. I like being alone. It's better if I'm alone._

Japan winces at the foul language but nods and bows slightly in appreciation for the information.

"Thank you, Prussia-san," he says graciously, beginning to back out of the room with a slightly strained look on his face. The albino waves goodbye, still grinning, until something flashes across his face and he frowns.

"Oi, wait a minute! Do a guy a favour, wouldja?" he calls, racing forward to grab Japan's arm and halt his exit. The Asian man stiffens and flinches at the contact and Gilbert frowns slightly and removes his hand.

_Recoil as if I was the plague why don't you….jeez…_

"H-hai, Prussia-san?" stammers Japan, looking sheepish as if ashamed for his behaviour.

Gilbert's frown morphs into a childish pout before the expression breaks into an easygoing one, one hand waving off the offense airily.

"I was just gonna ask you if you could give this game back to America the next time you see him…and tell him I totally beat his high score," says Gilbert with a grin, handing the other nation a small video game case. A strange look flashes across Japan's face and he shuffles sheepishly.

"A-ah….I am not sure I will be seeing America soon…" he says awkwardly. Gilbert blinks and tilts his head. "Vat? Aren't you guys like best friends or something?"

Japan diverts his gaze again, looking even more uncomfortable than before. "Ano…"

Gilbert scowls and folds his arms across his chest. "Don't tell this isn't about his whole economic/terrorist/bad luck shbang is it? You're not acting weird around the kid just because he's having some issues right now are you? That's unawesome of you,"

Something flashes in the Oriental nation's eyes and he fixes his dark gaze on the white-haired man.

"Prussia-san, please do not assume things," replies Japan firmly, "America-kun is going through a tumultuous time right now, yes, and it is best to leave him alone rather than distract him."

"Is that your excuse?" asks Prussia, raising an eyebrow, "Well whatever. Kid's got the attention span of a gnat. He'll get distracted either way."

"You don't seem to have much faith in America-kun," observes Japan dryly.

"Nah, it's nothing like that. I mean, he messed up big time and continues to trip over his own over-sized feet, but I think it sucks that everyone's turning their back on the kid now that he's sinking fast." Gilbert's gaze darkens, and he turns away, his jaw tight.

"It sucks being alone, you know?"

And a shiver runs through the Prussian as he remembers the last time he was truly alone. Remembers an icy prison and an eternal winter. Remembers clawing at walls that seemed to become perpetually smaller. Remembers the humiliation at him, once a great nation and Kingdom, reduced to an occupied territory and a spoil of war. The sting of not passing on in a blaze of glory still burning. The pain of being alone, unwanted, unneeded. A nation of darkness in a blossoming world of light. Left to rot in a Siberian prison until he finally ceased his pitiful existence once and for all.

Alone.

Discarded.

Fallen.

_Alone. _

But then there is a fluttering of wings and a soft tweet echoing through that snowy prison. A little bird he hasn't seen since his youth and his glory landing softly on his head. He doesn't notice, too cold to notice, too far gone to notice.

But when he does he is greeted with small pieces of paper tied to the bird's legs. Crumpled. Travel-worn. Damp. But there.

_Dear Prussia…._

Letters?

'_You better not die out there. If you're so easily defeated it will make my past victory over you look less splendid. And didn't you say you were going to get me back for that? You can't get me back if you're dead.' _

Elizaveta….

'_I hope you know it will be completely troublesome if you disappear. You owe me a lot of money for all the damage you've done to my house, and you never picked up that piece you had me compose for you, idiot.' _

That irritable young master…

Other letters, from Spain, Italy, even France…

…And then…

'_Brüder….'_

He freezes, breath catching as he reads the last letter.

'…_I need you with me. Please.' _

_Needs me?_

Him? Prussia? Death? He doesn't need that. Germany doesn't need that in his life. He doesn't-

_No. _

No?

_He needs…Gilbert. His big brother. His awesome big brother. _

Is that so? Even though you're you?

_I'm…._

_Not alone. _

"But America-kun isn't alone," says Japan as he gently takes the video game and begins leaving the room, "When he…when what happens happens, the people who care about him will be there to pick him back up and stop him from…from disappearing."

Dark brown flicker upward and a small smile plays on the nation's lips.

"Isn't that right Prussia-san?"

And sitting in that frozen prison, lips blue and skin paler than ever, Gilbert's lips twitch upwards into a small smile and he cradles that bird and the letters gently against his chest.

_Heh. Too awesome to disappear. Screw you world. You may not want Prussia, but you're stuck with Gilbert, whether you like it or not._

/

It had gotten really cold all of a sudden.

Gilbert shivers and hunkers down in his jacket, trying to brace his body against the unseasonably cold wind that has suddenly begun blowing through. Garbage whips along the sidewalk and signs and trees wave back and forth furiously. The chilly wind has come out of nowhere and all the people walking along shiver and clutch themselves in any defensive way that they can.

Gilbert raises an eyebrow as several girls scurry by, trying desperately to hold down the skirts that are flying up dangerously in the fierce wind.

_Well, aside from the cold part, I guess the wind isn't all that bad…._

"Achoo!"

The albino man jumps slightly, whirling around at the sudden noise that has come from behind.

"Holy- America! When the hell do you get behind me?"

The blonde nation sniffles and rubs his nose pitifully, sinking his chin down into his scarf.

"I was using you to block the wind," he says with another sad sniffle, "I hate the cold. Why is it so cold? It's summer, right? Why is it so freakin cold? I hate the cold. The cold sucks."

Gilbert stares at the younger man and has to stifle a snicker at his sad appearance. Currently wearing shorts and a t-shirt, the addition of a scarf and gloves has made America look utterly ridiculous, and the desolate expression he's wearing makes him look just a little pathetic.

"Jeez man, if you hate the cold that much why don't you just stay inside?" asks Gilbert dryly, shivering as another gust blows up his jacket.

"AC is on," sulks America, stuffing his hands under his armpits, "Can't figure out how to turn it off."

Gilbert snorts at the other man's incompetence but can't really find it in himself to comment. After all, he despises the cold as well.

A shiver runs up his spine as the memories that always accompany the cold begin to surface in his mind. His head begins to ache and a sick feeling starts to culminate in his stomach. That desolate feeling. That hopeless feeling. That feeling of being utterly alone.

_Gott, I hate the cold. _

Another sneeze has Gilbert turning back towards America and he is once again distracted and amused by the nation's pitiful appearance.

_You really are as scatterbrained as they come, jeez. _

Gilbert remembers America during his Civil War, when he had helped trained him and his soldiers. He remembers the permanent pain etched onto his face as his country and people literally tore him apart.

But he also remembers the smiles, the laughter that never completely faded away, and the confident look that remained even after the Union lost battle after battle.

"_I'll be alright, I know I will. Things may get tough, but this is America. We all fought for our freedom together, and we'll hold together no matter what. Nothing can tear this country apart. Nothing can make this union fall." _

Gilbert stares at America, watching the young man as he stomps his feet and hops up and down frantically.

_Scatterbrained. _

_Irresponsible. _

_Silly. _

_Naïve. _

But America is full of hope. Full of hope and vibrancy and _life. _The young nation is bubbling with the optimism that every nation feels when they are first formed and made strong. The optimism that for America, never faded. The determination and faith in himself and his people.

Everything people are expecting to crumble away any day now.

Almost on its own, Gilbert's arm snakes out and grabs the younger nation, pulling him against his chest and resting his hand on his head. America stops cursing the cold and stills, blinking slowly.

"Uh…Prussia?"

"Yeah?"

"…Why are you hugging me?"

"What, I can't hug you? You should be happy to bask in my awesomeness!"

"….It's kind of awkward dude."

"…Shut up."

**Pfft~ Guys, the ending sucks, I know. I really have to leave and I wanted so badly to post this today. I'm sorry.**

**And someone commented on all the chapters ending in 'Shut up.' THAT WAS SO UNINTENTIONAL IT'S NOT EVEN FUNNY. It just always happened and it seriously drove me crazy. When I couldn't break the pattern of doing that I was actually really upset. I was _relieved _**when Lovino's chapter broke the cycle. ****

****But apparently you guys liked the cycle so I guess I'll start it up again and just say the Italies were unique in not ending that way.****

**Anyways, I've always considered Prussia a hard character to write simply because he seems so easy to write. Simply make him boisterous, fun, a little bit douchy, and sprinkle his sentences with 'awesome'. I did my best to move beyond that. **

**I also wanted to write something different then him 'falling' when he was dissolved. So I kind of flipped it. Did you like?**

**Okay, history~**

**Teutonic Knights, you might remember from that episode with Lithuania but they pretty much went around trying to convert people. And sometimes (usually) they weren't very nice about it. **

**The Holy Roman Empire dissolved after a military defeat by the French. The territory was then claimed by the French, but when the Napoleonic Wars ended the German Confederation was formed. Fifty years later, Prussia founded the 'North German Confederation' which later became the German Empire, the empire which united German-speaking countries under Prussian leadership. This was the predecessor of modern day Germany.**

***Edit Almost forgot! Winston Churchill, England's Boss during WW2, called Prussia 'the root of all evil' and was the main campaigner for the country's dissolution. **

**Also, in the webcomic, Prussia sometimes teasingly calls Austria 'obocchan' which means something along the lines of 'young master'. **

**And a random note, I found the perfect GerIta song. Seriously, it's perfect. I'm going to write a songfic about it, so that might delay the next update. ;^_^**

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**


	8. With the Rise of the Bloodstained Dawn

**I think it's the apocalypse. I actually like this chapter. (I bet all of you end up hating it just because of that)**

**Thanks for the reviews last chapter! I'm hoping for at _least_ nine reviews this chapter! ...Please? **

**That said, **

**It's the _We All Fall Down _Japanese drinking game! Take a drink every time we mention honour! XD (non-alcoholic though. XP )**

**Kitty-Katz-Katz, does this answer your question? ;)**

_Kiku Falls with the Rise of the Bloodstained Dawn_

_Ichi. _

_Ni. _

_San. _

_Shi. _

His arms move fluidly as he pulls the sword through the different strokes, the silver gleaming as the blade moves up and down.

_Go _

_Roku. _

_Nana. _

_Hachi _

The slices are clean and swift, barely causing the air to stir as the sword flicks and slides smoothly. Side to side, back and forth.

_Kyu. _

He flips the blade, stabbing backwards before pulling the sword forward and sweeping to the side, the movement making enough wind to cause the cloth of his yukata to flap about slightly.

_Juu. _

With a twist and twirl of his arm and a flick of his wrist the blade spins, making the slightest of whistling sounds as it cuts fancy patterns in the air before finally stabbing down into the tatami mat.

Japan rests his hand on the hilt, breathing slightly laboured as he blinks and slowly calms down from the empowered high that always takes him over when he is wielding a katana. He allows another moment to compose himself before pulling the blade free of the ground and walking across the room to where a series of pegs protrude from the wall. The Asian nation picks up the small white rag that is hanging from one such peg and sits down, cross-legged, with the sword balanced across his lap. With meticulous care and soft but firm movements the Japanese man begins to wipe down the silver blade.

As he does, his fingers trace along the edges, the keen tip and smooth length. Though it appears shiny and new, the katana is dotted with little nicks and chips, almost imperceptible to the naked eye. It is an old sword, and a sword with history; a sword with stories.

Kiku closes his eyes, fingering the most noticeable out of all the chips. A large triangle cut out of the blade, right near the tip. He has thought about having it repaired, but it has always seemed almost dishonourable to remove the battle scars, the memories, from his ever-faithful companion.

_Though some memories, I really do wish to forget._

Kiku lets out a little gasp and his eyes flutter open as a sharp pain lances through him. He looks down to see blood leaking from the finger that he had been running along the chip, vibrant and red against his pale skin. Kiku blinks, staring at the wound with unconcealed bitterness and sorrow.

_But to forget is…_

_It is…_

_Dishonourable. _

And Japan values honour, dignity, and duty above all else.

Which is why he really, _really _wishes he could forget. Could put that time, that moment, _all _of those moments, from his mind. The breach of honour. The breach of his own intense values in the name of country and Emperor…

Because the Emperor is akin to a God, and his word is law.

The screams go in one ear and out the other. _Honourable _is now synonymous with _pleasing to the emperor. _And the Emperor wants this country to bow before Japan, be under Japan, under him.

The soldiers rush about, taking what they please, burning what they please, taking _whom _they please. The curses in Chinese fly thick and fierce; there are as many people attempting to fight back as there are fleeing. Both waves are being caught and massacred. Pulled to the ground.

Stomped.

Trampled.

Beaten.

Shot.

Cut.

Bleeding.

His own arm is beginning to hurt from the number of times he has swung and sliced through human flesh. Cut down person after person. Felt the tear, heardthe rip. Seen the tissue part and the entrails fly. Watched as bodies collapsed into nothing more than sliced meat. Blood lapping at his feet, dripping off his sword.

His beloved katana.

The soldiers use guns.

_Everyone is fighting with guns these days. _

Guns and bombs and grenades and gas and all these far-off methods of killing. The sword, Kiku thinks, is still the most honourable way of ending another person's life. Any coward can shoot someone from afar. Only a true warrior can look his enemy in the eye as he shoves his weapon through his chest. Can feel the blood splatter against his face and hands, watch the eyes dim, the body fall, the soundless scream.

The thump of a body hitting the ground is a sound that he has heard time and time again in this war. Though, undeniably, he has heard it before. Japan…Japan is a country born of war. The countless struggles, era after era, the revolutionaries and corruption and fighting. They are all painfully vivid in his memory. But the result of that fighting is the honour that his country now holds, and that makes all those agonizing memories worth it to Kiku. It was all worth it.

_Is _this_ worth it? _

Japan has been divided by war. He is no stranger to death and fighting. He considers it a small price to pay for his country's peace and honour. The screaming is nothing.

_But this is the first time I've heard the screaming of so many women and children._

Shut up.

_What? _

Shut _up. _

Women. Children. It doesn't matter. They are nothing. _Nothing. _For the creation of an empire. For the furthering of the Emperor's glorious regime. Pieces, obstructions that must be felled. Remorse, pity, guilt. They must be cast aside. Because there is nothing more honourable than doing his duty as a soldier and citizen of Japan. To back away. To turn his head. To falter. It would be to dishonour his country, his leader, his blade, and himself. This, _this _is what must be done. If the Emperor demands it there is no alternative.

All of those who oppose the glorious emperor, who oppose the empire of the Rising Sun. All of them most fall beneath his blade. Because this country now belongs to Japan. Is now to going to be placed under Japan.

China.

Because the Japanese are superior and one day the world will belong to them. Because these Chinese lives are insignificant. What is another Chinese bitch lying slain on the road? This land will be claimed for Japan and will no longer be wasted on an inferior race. In the name of the Emperor, Kiku would draw his katana and-

_His katana. _

Pauses.

_The sleek silver blade is so enticing and beautiful he wants to hold it so badly- _

Blood dripping down the blade, making a _plop! _sound as it lands in the quickly forming puddle at his feet.

"_This is yours, my gift to you, __Dì dì_ _." _

He stumbles back, blade dragging in the dirt, blood staining his uniform. Dripping, down his arms, down his hands, down his fingers…

He stares at them numbly, before sighing and sticking them into his mouth, sucking the liquid off as he stands up and heads to the bathroom to find a bandage to wrap his finger in.

_I really am getting careless in my old age. Imagine, cutting myself on my own blade!_

The Asian nation sighs as he stretches on his tiptoes to reach the bandages on the shelf above the sink. He winces as he feels something crack and inwardly laments the consequences of old age as he retrieves the bandages and sinks down onto the floor. Settling himself comfortably, Kiku holds up his finger, observing his wound with a kind of tired resignation.

_I should wash this before I bandage it, shouldn't I? _

The blood is still trickling out of the cut. Bright and red and angry looking. The slash is diagonal across his finger, and the flesh is parted, the cut actually quite deep. Kiku's brow furrows as he looks at the cut and a chill goes through him as he recognizes the similarities between his current wound and that _other _one. The one he had given. So long ago.

Kiku squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't want to remember.

_It is dishonourable to run from the past. _

And what is honour? What truly is honour? For you, who have done so many things in the name of 'honour'. Can you truly say 'dishonourable' so casually? You whose white uniform was stained red with the blood of the innocent? For _honour? _

All the innocent.

All the bodies felled by his blade.

The pain.

The screaming.

The burning.

Take, take, take for his glorious empire. For the Emperor.

For honour.

Yes, this is for honour.

This deep, diagonal cut splitting the skin. A deep, angry red with blood staining cloth and soaking into the soil. This red, red line.

_This red line that I drew for honour. _

Because 'you' taught me about honour. 'You' taught me about duty.

_Sitting under the shaded tree. Listening to tales about bravery and heroes-_

For my country. For my people. For the expansion. You see, don't you? You always wanted me to become big and strong, didn't you?

_Always telling me how fast. How fast I learned how fast I grew- _

…Always so proud. Are you proud of _me _now, _Oniisan? _

_Looking at me with those empty eyes. _

And where is your pride _now? _Where is your delight at how fast I learned and how fast I grew?

_The pool of blood is spreading and he is not getting up. Just staring with those empty, empty eyes- _

But I'm surprised at how you acted. Instead of fighting me with _honour _you just yelled and screamed and pleaded and cried like a pathetic…

"_W__èi shén me__?" _

Why?

_Why? _

For honour of course.

And for every drop of blood that is spilled. Every woman and child that falls, that is his justification. His answer.

_For honour. _

But Kiku, _Kiku _has doubts. Ringing in his ears are the screams of women, violated and murdered. The wails of children, robbed of life before it even began. His sleep is disturbed by empty golden eyes. Haunted eyes. Betrayed eyes.

_Otouto, how could you? _

_Oniisan, how could you? _

_Obocchan, how could you? _

"For honour," he repeats to himself, over and over. It is for honour.

But the death count rises.

And so do the screams.

And so does the pain.

But so does the territory gained. As he pushes deeper and deeper into Asia. As he stretches his forces further and further and takes more and more.

_Success. _

Another city taken. Another uprising suppressed. Another battle won.

Everything is going well. Everything is pleasing to the Emperor. Japan's power is spreading further and further and soon China will be his and Korea is _already _his and-

_What are you doing? _

What?

_This is…_

This is power. This is glory. This is ho-

_No! _

What?

_It's not. It can't be. This death, this suffering. _

What are you saying? This is for our country!

_Never. _

For our Emperor!

_Not for our country. _

Our emperor does what is best for our country. He has made Japan great.

_And dishonourable. _

What did you say?

_This is your honour? The murder of innocents? _

They are nothing. Foreigners. Inferior. For the spread of Japan-

_There is no honour here. There is no dignity here. This is murder. This is rape and pillaging. This is-_

_**Shut up!**_

And as he swings his sword, his hand and his arm and his body are shaking. The blood splashing against his cheeks feels hotter than usual and he feels like it's burning away at his skin. Melting the flesh away. Like all the buildings they've burnt. All the towns they've burnt. All the people they've burnt.

His chest feels tight and constricted and every time the soldiers march forward and land is gained it feels like the ground has been yanked out from under his feet.

_Be proud! Your empire is spreading! _

That's what they say. That's what they are saying.

And outwardly he is calm and composed and he is smirking as he watches place after place fall and he is chuckling as he hears of China's weakened condition and-

_Nononononono-_

-and he laughs when he hears of the direct hits at Pearl Harbour. He laughs when he hears that those _foolish_ Allies think the entry of the United States will save them. There is no one who can stop the rise of the Japanese Empire. No one who can stop the inevitable. And the series of wins in the Pacific as the Americans try to push them back prove that. The Philippines and Singapore and all those other islands…

Nothing can stop him.

Nothing can stop the rise of this glorious empire. Stop them from claiming what is rightfully theirs. Asia, the world, meant for the Japanese.

Meant for _him. _

He holds his head high, even as it aches and pounds with the screams of countless civilians echoing within it. He wears his uniform with pride, now a crisp black and gold one because the white one bore the bloodstains far too obviously. He holds his sword and marches forward, ignoring the steady trickle of blood down the edge. Ignoring the flashbacks of the blood of _that _person, sliding down the blade and pooling at his feet. Ignoring the way his foot falls on the ground sound so similar to the _thunk _of a decapitated head hitting the dirt. His eyes flash with satisfaction, though his vision is haunted with betrayed, desolate golden eyes and the mangled bodies of children.

Glorious Japan.

_Is this hell? _

This empire that will last forever.

_It is hell, isn't it? _

And Japan is full of pride and arrogance and the high of success and Kiku feels like he's spiraling downdown_down _a deep hole. Falling further and further with each victory. With each atrocity in the name of _honour. _

_Please. _

It hurts.

_Please!_

This perversion of the word 'honour'. This distortion of everything Kiku values and loves and stands for. Because what Japan and the Emperor sees as 'honour' is what Kiku sees as the loss of his own.

His own honour.

_Slipping away. _

And the darkness just seems to be getting larger and larger and all-consuming and even as his allies begin to face losses in Europe and the Americans gain victories in the Pacific it still seems like the Land of the Rising Sun will never set.

This bloodstained dawn will remain forever.

_Kami-sama…_

Tears.

_Someone. _

He feels like the fall is quickening, like Kiku is going to disappear into a dark hole and only Japan will remain. Only that bloodthirsty, imperialistic empire will remain.

_Someone!_

And then there is pain.

Like someone has lit his flesh afire. Like a bomb has detonated under his skin. And he remembers screaming. Screaming so loudly and in such agony and everything was burningburningburning and people were just _gone _and-

-Japan is screaming with anger at the _low, dishonourable, _attack civilians will you? Disgusting foreigners-

-And there is dissent and anger but unease and fear and those _honourable _leaders begin to discuss the _unthinkable. _

…_Surrender? _

Never_**. **_

_Surrender? _

I will not!

….But then the second bomb is dropped.

And when that excruciating pain fades to a dull agony and he opens his eyes, it is to a peace treaty, and defeat. When he opens his eyes it is to a country crippled by war, kicked out of its conquests, and humbled by loss.

The loss of an empire.

The loss of that arrogance and superiority.

And when Kiku begins to cry, they are tears of relief.

Because he has _finally _stopped falling.

/ /

The cool breeze is refreshing.

Kiku sits back in his chair, his eyes closed and a pleased smile on his face as the wind whips his hair about his face. Though the air conditioning is on his room feels unbearably stuffy and the need for fresh air was great.

The Japanese man sighs contently, enjoying the serene feeling that is stealing over him as he allows himself to drift away from all the drama and stress of political life. The tasks and events and responsibilities that usually plague his mind and give him stomachaches fading away into nothingness.

_To think, such peace could actually be reached…_

A soft knock at the door cuts through his serenity like a knife and his eyes fly open. He sits up in his chair, his back immediately protesting and causing him to wince slightly. With another sigh, this one rather resigned, Kiku turns in his chair, straightens his posture and sits up primly and with his hands placed neatly in his lap.

"Come in," he says, in that soft tone he is known for nowadays.

_So different from the one in my memories…_

The door opens carefully and Kiku's eyes widen marginally in surprise at the man who has appeared in the doorway.

China stands stiffly, as if he would rather be anywhere but in the room he is in. His gaze is to the side, and his entire persona seems slightly awkward, in contrast to his usual poise.

Kiku swallows thickly before giving a small smile. "Good evening, China-san," he says respectfully, dipping his head and upper body into a curt bow, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

China finally turns his head towards Kiku, golden eyes swimming with a thousand different emotions.

A vision of those same golden eyes, glaring upwards, broken and betrayed, causes Kiku to wince and quickly jerk his gaze away, clenching one hand into a fist.

That memory…

_I cannot forget. _

_It hurts, but I must not let myself forget. _

"You forgot some notes in the meeting room," says China, not noticing (or perhaps, just choosing not to comment on) Kiku's sudden moment of weakness or the tense way he is now sitting. The elder nation walks into the room, looking slightly uncomfortable as he does, with a light blue folder held in his outstretched hand.

Kiku slowly turns his head back, keeping his eyes downcast and demure as he rises from his chair and walks forward to meet China halfway.

"_Arigatou,_" he says softly as he takes the folder, walking back to place it on his desk, "I was not aware that I had forgotten anything."

"You seemed worlds away during the meeting," comments China, folding his arms into his long sleeves now that his hands are free, "Is something bothering you?"

His gaze once again drifts upwards to meet his former mentor's, and a painful twinge lances through Kiku's chest as he sees China's eyes full of _actual concern. _

_I…do not deserve…_

"Japan?" And suddenly China is right there, right up in front of him with his forearm pressed against his forehead and eyes wide with concern. "Are you feeling alright? Are you sick? I know everyone is having economic issues right now, but if you need to take a break-,"

"I'm fine," says Kiku quickly, cutting the other nation off as he shrinks away from the touch, "Really China-san. I just…have a lot on my mind."

China moves back, eyes still full of concern. He folds his arms into his sleeves once more and tilts his head to the side, asking: "Would you like to talk about it?"

And another pained twinge goes through Kiku at the genuine kindness and concern in China's voice. It really hurts him, for his brother to be here. Accepting and willing and ready to maintain a civil relationship like this. He doesn't _deserve _to have his big brother back in his life. Not after he so brutally betrayed him. China's willingness to accept the past as the past has never sat well with Kiku. It seems too similar to simply _ignoring _the past.

_Like what _they _do. _

Yes. His people. His government and bosses. So determined to forget, to downplay the atrocities and death counts. To forbid speech of the horrid acts and the downright evil that had consumed the country. Disallowing any talk that was not favourable to Japan.

Forgetting any bad things. Any wrong things.

_That is why _I_ must never forget. _

_That is why…I wish you wouldn't act like nothing happened. _

Though deep down, Kiku knows that isn't the case. He knows that there are days where China can't even bear to look at him. Days where the scar on the older nation's back throbs and pulsates with pain and betrayal. The stiffness as he entered, the uncomfortable posture, they are all a result of the unease he still feels around Japan.

He knows that China hasn't forgotten.

But for the most part he has forgiven.

"I…" Kiku is hesitant. Does he wish to speak about what was plaguing his thoughts during the meeting? It truly seems as if it is the only thing anyone is talking about nowadays, and he doesn't wish to seem like a shameless gossip. Particularly because the topic of discussion is a dear friend of his.

"America-kun," he says finally, "I…am concerned…"

China raises an eyebrow and an incredulous look forms on his face, "For that brat? He is only getting what has been coming to him. This has been building for a while and it only makes sense that the breaking point would begin looming on the horizon. Besides, we all knew that this would happen someday."

Kiku stiffens at the harsh words, though he wants to nod. He did know this would happen. Of course he did. He is one of the old nations, from ancient Asia, and he has seen more than enough of the world to know the fate that befalls idealistic young nations.

_Complete and utter destruction of the heart, soul, and country. _

And yet…

"But…America-kun…," begins Kiku hesitantly, "America-kun…emerged in a different age. A…different world. Don't you think he might be…different?"

Japan doesn't like the words that just came out of his mouth. He knows, deep down, that America has no _right _to be different. That he should fall just like every nation before him. That he has _absolutely no right _to continue skipping around with that infuriatingly carefree smile on his face.

This is the truth, and Japan knows that his previous statement was foolish.

"You are right of course," replies China, causing Kiku to jerk his head towards him in surprise, "We do live in a different, more… 'civilized' age." The older man focuses his golden gaze on his former little brother, his eyes slightly harder than they usually are. "However, what will come will come, and there is no such thing as a great nation that wasn't brought down to its knees brutally and painfully."

Kiku holds China's gaze for a few seconds before dropping his eyes down to his feet, playing with the hem of his sleeve nervously.

"Yes," he repeats quietly, squeezing his eyes shut and turning away completely.

"I know."

/

It really is far too hot in America.

Kiku sighs as he fidgets on the overly-soft couch, feeling smothered by all the pillows and wishing he could kneel on a nice mat instead. Westernization might have come and taken hold, but he is still a traditional nation who prefers the old ways to anything else. All this unnecessary softness and the feeling that he is going to drown in the seat rather than relax in it is rather unappealing.

The Japanese man shifts, attempting to make himself comfortable and looks anxiously towards the door.

_Where-? _

The door bangs open loudly and Kiku jumps, instinctively reaching for the katana he doesn't currently have.

"Sorry 'bout the wait!" apologizes Alfred loudly as he leaps into the room, heaps of junk food piled up in his arms, "I wanted to get some snacks before we started our marathon!"

Kiku can't help but smile as the younger nation kicks the door shut with his foot and stumbles over to the couch, looking undeniably adorable in the awkward way he shuffles over, the food throwing him off balance severely.

The couch rocks as Alfred plops himself down and Kiku politely shifts over to accommodate the American and his vast arsenal of food.

"Thanks for coming over, Kiku," says Alfred with a grin, pushing down the bags and boxes to reveal his smiling, blue-eyed face, "It feels like we haven't watched movies like this in forever!"

"That is because the last time we did you couldn't sleep for a week," reminds Kiku gently, still smiling despite himself.

In truth, Kiku has not been comfortable with being around America lately. All the talk, the speculation, the way the young nation is being treated like a ticking time bomb… Kiku doesn't want to see it. He doesn't want to see his friend in any sort of pain.

_But…it's not fair for me to ignore you, is it? _

Alfred pouts and grumbles something about heroes not being afraid and Kiku finds himself unable to stop a small chuckle from bubbling forth.

_America-kun…_

With all his heart, Kiku feels like he has a debt to America that he can never repay. He owes his sanity, his heart, and his honour to the young nation. And that is something he can never fully express his gratitude for.

Because though the pain was indescribable and the names of the innocent dead remain etched in his memory, Kiku knows deep in his heart that the death toll would have been much higher had his bloody empire been allowed to continue. Had war continued and the fighting continued and that horrific distortion of honour had continued. Though the scars from the burns still blemish his back and he relives the liquefying of his insides every night, he is grateful. Grateful that the monster that was himself was stopped. Grateful that he was pulled –however painfully- from that black hole he was spiraling into.

Grateful for America. For Alfred.

Kiku's eyes remain on the blonde nation, even as the movie starts. Visions of America, darkened by evil, tortured by betrayal, wracked with pain flit through his mind. It's not that the nation has never suffered before, but that absolute destruction, that fall into the black…

Kiku closes his eyes and despite his own inhibitions, let's his head fall forward so that his forehead is pressed against Alfred's shoulder.

_Alfred-kun.._

An arm is encircling his shoulders and Kiku fights down the feelings of discomfort that always come when others touch him.

"Don't worry, Kiku!" proclaims Alfred loudly, hugging the smaller man close, "You don't have to be afraid, I'll totally protect you from all the ghosts!"

Kiku smiles wryly and clenches the American's sleeve with one hand, pressing closer.

"Of course, America-kun," he replies with just a hint of teasing, and a bit of sadness.

_Because you are the hero. My hero. Even in your evil deeds you somehow manage to bring about good. _

…_And I know, just as the rest of the world does, that you won't be like that for much longer._

**Guys, I have a secret. Japan's portrayal in Hetalia annoys me _just_ a little. Or more specifically, the portrayal of Japan and China's relationship. Japan did some seriously horrible things to China, and trust me, the Chinese haven't forgotten. My friend and I speak Japanese with each other but we can't do it when her dad is home because he's Chinese and he's like 8( . He hates the Japanese. Same with my other Chinese friends' parents. I really can't see China being all 'Oooooh my beloved little brother!' to Japan. I tried to find a middle ground in this chapter, since that behaviour _is _canon and all. **

**Also, I know that in the webcomic Japan is said to have given China a bad wound across his back from when he betrayed him. But it wasn't allowed to be mentioned in the anime because they _do _have a thing where they can't have anything negative about Japan in the media. Even strips were Japan is made fun of a _wee _bit aren't animated. **

**That's actually why I can understand why the Koreans were so pissed off by Korea's character. Japan did really horrible stuff to Korea too. They _tried _to take over China and _succeeded _in taking over Korea, after which they did a whole bunch of horrible crap (taken the women as 'comfort women', work camps, etc.) to the Koreans. Then they have the gall to make fun of Korea and glorify Japan? In a webcomic read worldwide? I'd be kinda PO'ed to. **

**I'm not hating on Hetalia or anything, or the Japan character, but those are things that I think people should be aware of when they're writing the characters. Like, I can't read completely fluffy NiChu. There has to be angst of some sort. You need to address their past in some way if you're going to write them, because you can't just go with China being all loving and pining after Japan because the Japanese literally mowed through China and treated the Chinese _horribly. _And when people say they ship Korea/Japan because 'They can both fanboy over dramas!' I'm just like "UM. NO." **

**Also, I think this is important. Please, no one think I'm trying to justify the use of atomic bombs in this chapter. I think it was horrific, and even though if you think about it logically it _did _cost less lives than an invasion or a continuation of war would have it's still horrible. **

**_Gah. _I hate being serious. Someone slap me. -_-**

**Thanks to my friends for Mandarin translations! **

**...Please review? **

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**


	9. With the Loss of Pride

**So apparently I have a lot of Chinese readers. That made writing this chapter **_**so flippin scary. **_

**Sorry, it's really not my best. Today was my first day of school and I've been working like mad on this chapter to get it out before I get murdered by work. IB program, what the hell was I thinking? **

**Because I wrote it madly it turned out…eh. I write better when I'm relaxed and know where the chapter is going. I didn't have a clear plan for this chapter **_**and **_**I was in a hurry so….eh. A thousand sorries to all of my readers! I totally feel as if I've failed you! DX **

**As always, thanks so much for reviews! I asked for nine and I got ten! That made me really happy~ You guys write such nice things and make me feel so good at my writing...Thank you! A thousand thank yous!**

_Yao Falls with the Loss of Pride_

White.

Pu-erh.

Kudin.

Jasmine.

Yao takes an appreciate sniff and smiles; the scent of the various tea laves swirling around and pleasing his senses. The different herbal smells encircle and wrap around him, allowing him to drift off into a tea soaked dream of simpler times and the small joys that a single warm cup can bring.

"Are you going to buy something, sir?"

Yao's eyes flutter open, and he stares for a moment at the tea shop owner, blinking lethargically. The high induced by the tantalizing scent of tea leaves begins to fade as his vision once again contests the blissful image in his head. He is _not_ in a traditional and delicate shop in his own homeland. Rather, he is in a modernized and knock off tea shop in America, with the tea leaves shredded and entrapped in small cloth bags for convenience and the herbal smell coming from potpourri and other synthetic scented materials around the store.

_The wonders of modern society. _

At this point, Yao can't even bring himself to be disappointed. He stares around at the contents of the store again, still breathing in those misleading scents, before closing his eyes and folding his arms into his sleeves.

"'No thank you," he says politely, turning away from the owner and moving to exit the store, "I am afraid you do not have what I am looking for."

The store has Green tea and Black tea and Oolong and Red but Yao prefers boiling actual tea leaves instead of leaving a man-made cloth bag to soak in water that he intends to drink. The way Westerners perverted his beloved beverage has always ruffled his feathers, because Yao is proud of his tea and wishes for it to be enjoyed as he and his people intended it to be.

But it is the twenty-first century, and convenience is the goal, first and foremost. If a faster version can model the taste than it is, without a doubt, the preferred method. Speed, efficiency, the barest semblance of quality; that is the world China now lives in.

And he hates it.

China is from a world where you are supposed to take pride in your work. Pride in your family and heritage. Pride in your life and your accomplishments. Not to settle for the bare minimum for money. Not to use shortcuts to the easiest end. Pride.

Pride.

And China himself is a very prideful nation.

Pride in the sweeping plateaus and dipping valleys. Pride in the endless plains of flat Earth and the high-reaching massifs that shoot up and touch the very sky. Pride in the fertility of the lowlands, of the abundance of his land and the growth and prosperity that his farmers could bring forth. Pride in the subtropical islands, dry and vast deserts, snow-topped mountains, beautiful and serene rivers, and large, enchanting beaches.

And what China hates more than anything else is a loss of that pride. Is the way those _damn _foreigners have moved in and planted themselves firmly in _his _country. Is the way he has all of Europe in his house, using his railroads and his resources and his harbours to do with as they please.

'Opening China up to the world' is simply another way of saying, 'Opening China up to our benefit'. Let's crack him open, take what we need, plant our roots and stay for as long as we can. Enter the house with our shoes on, disrespect the spirits, put our feet on the table and bastardize everything the nation stands for. Because we _can. _

Because China is weak.

Right now, he is weak.

Because of that time. That _bastard. Those _ of them.

And there is the absolute bitterest of tastes in China's mouth as he remembers the strength and the reputation and the _pride _of the Qing Dynasty and all that it brought. Of the prosperity and fortitude and everything that a nation wants. Of the silver that was pouring into the country as the Europeans scrambled for the precious tea. That Chinese tea that is and has always been Yao's pride and that brings mountains and mountains of wealth to the country.

That tea.

The tea that damned him.

Because Europeans like money and don't like to lose it. Because despite the glow of profit they get from selling tea the sting of losing so much silver to the Chinese is greater. So they do what those honourable English gentlemen do best.

They _cheat. _

And all China can remember is a sickly sweet smell and England smiling that deceptively charming smile and _Won't you try this, China? It's new, from India. _And then there's this smoky haze over everything and all that power and wealth is slipping through his fingers but he can't _do _anything because his limbs feel so _heavy _and that sickly sweet scent is _everywhere…._soaked into his very pores, the very soul and core of his country…

And then there is war.

Because though Yao is lost in the opium haze that has consumed his people, his government is aware of the injustice that is being done. And they do everything in their power to stop it. And those money-loving Europeans, of course, don't like that. So they come with their ships, they blow their way up the beautiful rivers and sink boat after boat, paving their way through great, proud China to their goal and their wants.

And despite the great strength and prestige of the Qing Dynasty the war is lost and the opium continues to flow in and Yao finds himself floating farther and farther away. Barely aware of his country losing the pride and prestige he once so treasured. And his head barely rises off his pillow when another war breaks out, this time involving the French as well. Another war that ends in Chinese loss. Loss of exclusive ports, loss of the rights to the Yangtze, loss of the isolation of the inland from foreigners, loss of territory to England and Russia, loss of countless silver to England and France, loss of the Summer Palace, the loss of the strength of the Qing Dynasty, and first and foremost, the loss of pride.

China's great, indomitable pride.

Laid to waste by a white poppy, enshrouded by smoke and lost in a drugged haze.

For a nation that has lived forever. For a civilization that stretches millennia into the past. For an embodiment that has seen countless lives pass by, countless ages and countless events...

Pride in himself and in his country is the only true thing that he can still hold onto.

And to lose it…

To lose it is unthinkable.

Which is why Yao absolutely _refuses _to buy this cheap, knockoff tea.

Despite the intense craving for it that he has and the lack of tea leaves at his disposal, Yao would rather go without than settle for the cheap American brand built solely on convenience and profit.

Exiting the store, Yao exhales loudly, the fresh air outside quickly purging the herbal scents from his nostrils as a cool breeze moves the otherwise warm and stuffy air pleasantly. The faint scent of pollution quickly replaces the previous nice smells, and Yao wrinkles his nose slightly. The smell isn't as prominent as it is in _his _home, but it is enough to sour the nice day. The ancient nation discovered during the rise of industrialization that he is very sensitive to scents in the atmosphere. Whether it is because the majority of his long, _long _life was spent in a vastly untamed or rural land, or simply because he has always been very attuned to nature and the world around him is up for debate.

Being conscientious of his part in nature and in the world is one of those things that are very important to the ancient nation. When you live forever, in a world that is constantly changing and advancing and moving forward into new, foreign places, it is very important to retain close ties with your roots, with where you come from. Keeping in tune with nature and his place in the world are things that Yao practices religiously, and something that he has impressed to all the children under his care.

China's breath hitches as he thinks of them all. All those little children, new nations, new cultures and new peoples born and flourishing. Little nation-children with wide eyes and hands reaching towards that unfathomable future. Watching them grow and flourish under his tutelage always brought an entirely new type of pride to the Chinese nation. Watching them listen to and apply his lessons was something that caused his heart and chest to swell with joy and love. The way they stared at him as if he had all the answers in the world is an image that Yao holds dear to his heart.

His children are his greatest pride and he loves watching them grow stronger.

And stronger.

And stronger.

Until he is standing in front of China with a katana that Yao had given him long, long ago. Until he is standing amdist the bodies of people- _China's _people- that he has hacked down in his mad quest for power. Until he is watching his soldiers rape and murder and brutalize the people with a look of detachment or even, perhaps, a type of satisfaction.

Standing in front of Yao.

With that white and red uniform.

The child who Yao loved and loves and did love and who sat with Yao and learned characters with Yao and watched the moon with Yao-

_The rabbit is pounding medicine- _

-and that child, that nation-child who was raised by Yao and then grew as nation-children do. Who grew to become a great independent and strong nation by his own right. That child who looked up at his big brother China with large dark eyes and a small, shy little smile.

That nation-child.

That nation-child lunges forward, katana raised as he strikes at China. Strikes at China like he has been striking at China since 1931. And China, proud, proud China, will not raise a weapon, will not fight. Not admit that maybe he was wrong when he thought he saw the love in the relationship and maybe he was wrong when he thought he was the best teacher and maybe he was wrong to call this child 'beloved little brother'.

Proud, proud China.

"_Soshite, omae no jisonshin ima wa doko desu ka, Oniisan?" __**(1)**_

To proud to raise a hand and fight that child who is no longer a child but an imperialistic demon. Dodges, ducks, darts backwards while alternating between hissed curses and quiet pleading.

"_Dì Dì…." _

"_Dì Dì!" _

_I remember those times, under the stars, those quiet times...those lovely times…_

Those dark eyes…

Those dark eyes, black with lust as they focus on him, rush at him. Lust for power. Lust for blood. And the lust that has consumed all the soldiers that are laying waste to and violating everyone they can find in the city.

Those dark eyes, bright with curiousity as they look up at the stars.

And Yao is so consumed in anguished memory that he doesn't react fast enough to Japan's next charge. Doesn't dodge in time and finds himself pinned to the floor. A nation-child who grew so big so fast pressing down on him. Nimble hands and slender fingers that he once guided through the different character strokes now viciously tearing at his clothes. That gaze, that gaze that used to look up at China with admiration-

"_Niisan!" _

_-_with curiousity, with respect, with love. Now staring _down _at him-

_And now I'm so small and you're so big- _

-with a cruel sort of smirk and a contemptuous kind of look.

"_Omae no jisonshin wa doku desu ka? Doko?"_

Pressing his shoulders down, leaning down to whisper into his ear-

"_Where is your pride? Where?" _

The ground is cold and his legs are cold and the shredded remains of his clothing aren't enough and why is his beloved Kiku still on top of him get _off _you insolent child I will not be treated like this I am an ancient and respected nation and your elder and I will not-

"_You have none, China." _

And then there is pain.

Unimaginable pain that rips through his backside and up his spine and pounds through his entire body. His own voice rips out of his throat unbidden. He screams and he writhes and flails and all his decorum and poise and grace and all those things that he takes _pride _in disappear as he struggles and he cries as his body is rocked and pounded mercilessly.

And the screaming of his people around him and the laughter and the pleased shouts of the soldiers surround him and with the weight of his beloved brother pinning him and wracking his body with agony it's like China has entered some sort of hell. A personal hell, just for prideful old nations.

And when his vision blurs with tears and pain all he sees are the civil wars, the dead soldiers, the fallen empires and the dynasties that crumbled. The sea of dead and the sea of failures and losses and everything that makes China pathetic.

_Where is your pride now? _

And he sees the Allies, those Western nation he once abhorred, still hates. Those Western nations who his government saw as their only chance to survive against Japan-

-_his beloved little brother who won't stop pushing and ripping ad he can't hear over his own screaming and- _

-and whom he approached with that stiff Asian pride weighing down his appeals for help all the way.

But is it pride? What is your pride if you're still willing to roll over and show your belly to Europeans so that they will help you?

_Where is your pride, China? _

And China screams, some inhuman screaming that almost sounds like all the violated women and murdered men in Nanking screaming at once. And he lunges upwards and shoves Japan and kicks his aching legs with blood dripping down them and his entire body shaking as he struggles to his feet and attacks _that nation-child _in a flurry of kicks and punches with no form but anguish and desperation and a type of loss that is more bitter than any previous defeat.

And he can barely register it when he is shoved away-

_So easily shoved away I'm so __**weak- **_

-stumbling and turning to fall onto his hands and knees. He is numb. He can barely feel the blood stained dirt under his fingers. Barely feel the cold wind, the previously hot liquid cooling and quickly drying on his skin.

And then it's like a hot razor has been raked down his back and the pain is so intense that he can't even find the air in his lungs to scream.

China collapses. Onto his side, flopping over onto his back. Blood soaking into the remains of his shirt and into his hair and spreading out on the ground around him. And standing over him is that nation-child, with the katana that Yao gave him dripping Yao's blood.

_Where is your Pride now? _

The child you raised and taught and loved violated and humiliated you and then struck you down with your own blade. Your blade that you gave him out of love.

Are you proud, China?

Are you proud of this child?

Are you proud of how you raised him?

Are you proud of yourself and what you've done?

Where is your pride China?

_That pride that is the only thing you've held onto these four millennia._

_The only thing stopping you from collapsing from the weight of your age._

_The only thing stopping you from falling. _

It's gone now, isn't it?

/

Meditation, China thinks, is truly the perfect method of relaxation. Becoming completely at peace with yourself, your surroundings, and the natural world around you.

Yao sits cross-legged on his balcony, his hair loose around his shoulders and wearing only a pair of loose drawstring pants. Despite his normally rigid standards and need for a clean and respectable appearance, when relaxing on his own Yao loves sinking into comfy sweatpants or ratty shorts and succumbing to the cool breeze of nature, freed from the inflexibility and noise of the surrounding world and life in general. Completely and utterly at pea-

"Anikiiii!"

China's eyes shoot open and he yelps as a pair of arms clamp around his torso, hugging him tightly and pressing his back into a warm and muscled chest.

"Aiyah! Korea! Let go!" splutters Yao indignantly, slapping at the hands that are latched uncomfortably to his sensitive and bare skin. The Chinese man drives his elbow back sharply and the youth behind him lets out an 'oof!' sound, his hands and arms finally releasing as he stumbles backwards, massaging his chest with a pout.

"That wasn't nice, I was just saying hello!" whines Korea, bottom lip quivering at the injustice of his treatment.

"You say hello with your words, not with your hands," comments Yao flatly, standing up and stretching to the side before collecting his duangua from where it was folded neatly on a chair.

"What does it matter as long as you express your joy at seeing the person?" counters Korea, folding his arms across his chest and making a face as if he has just been gravely insulted. Yao finishes doing up the fasteners on his top and brings his hand up to his head, massaging his temples with one eye twitching slightly.

_So much for peace…_

"Korea, why are you here?" he asks after an awkward moment of silence, turning to face the younger nation with a stern look. "Was there any particular reason you disturbed my meditation or were you just bored?"

Yao treasures his meditation time as a moment to escape the constant flurry of activity, political stress, and the general struggle of being a nation. The fast pace at which the world has rushed forward often leaves him breathless, stunned and feeling rather lost in a new era that has rapidly advanced and done away with the old rules and the old way of life. Tradition, falling through the cracks to match Westernization and the rise of the American way of life.

There are many days where it truly hurts China's heart.

Which is why he loves the moments where he can sit with the wind blowing through his hair and the scent of trees and flowers (however tinged by pollution they may be) strong in his nostrils.

And he does _not_ appreciate the moment being interrupted by a hyperactive Korean.

"I just wanted to talk to you is all," huffs Korea, evidently put out by Yao's grumpier than usual behavior. As the teenager's normally happy expression falls into a sullen one, a small twinge of guilt shoots through the Chinese man and he fidgets uncomfortably, turning his head away from the boy.

China often wonders why the loss of Japan hit him as hard as it did when he had so many other 'children' who still_ liked _him-

_Did any of them ever _love_? Or was that too just an old man's delusion?_

-and what's more, he often wonders why he treats the children he has so badly. Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Korea who is ever so eager to shower him with love. And China, unwilling to receive it.

Why is that?

_Isn't it obvious? _

…Ah, yes.

_Pride again…_

"Hey," Yao is startled out of his thoughts by a heavy hand descending on his head and finds Korea standing in front of him with a concerned look on his face.

"What's bothering you? You're even grumpier than usual," states the younger nation, eyes narrowed in a worried expression, "And you're usually very grumpy. At least you are to me. I don't think you're as grumpy to everyone else. Except maybe England. And Russia. And Hong Kong but that's only when he blows something up-,"

"_Please_ stop talking," pleads China, sliding out from under Korea's hand -why is Korea so _touchy_-, "I assure you, nothing is wrong."

_Really?_

What?

_Are you _ever_ alright?_

China, immortal China who had the world ripped out from under his feet. Who lost his sense and pride to England and his accursed opium. Who struggled and fought through his people's determination and willpower to regain that pride, only to have it ripped away again by the child he once called his own.

And where is China now?

" –ance, and America. Oh yeah, you're still mad at Alfred, right? Too bad, 'cause he's a pretty nice guy-,"

"Don't start talking about America, please," commands China as he feels the telltale pulsations of an impending headache. "My wallet hurts just thinking about him."

Korea frowns again and tilts his head to the side. "No luck on that debt yet?"

. . . . . .

A series of Chinese curses erupt into the air as Yao explodes and begins ranting at the sky angrily. Korea stares in shock at the loss of control before dissolving into giggles. "I'll take that as a no," he says with a snort.

And then, the characteristically easy-going and cheerful nation takes on a more serious and troubled air, shuffling closer to his elder brother.

"Hey, Aniki," says Korea, tugging at Yao's sleeve gently. He's speaking in a soft tone that generally isn't expected of him, and his brow is creased with worry, "You've been around forever, right? You're _really _old. …Do you think America will be alright?"

China turns his head to look at his younger brother, his anger fading as he notes the true concern in the eyes of the nation who is usually nothing but laughs and giggles. China has never truly approved of America's friendship with Korea, partly because it helped split the boy and his twin sister apart, and partly because he dislikes America with a passion. However, it has always been clear that Korea thinks highly of America's friendship and even treasures it.

One of the few who are truly worried about America.

_Will he be alright? _

Yao sighs, folding his arms into his sleeves and leaning back onto the railing. He's answered this question before, discussed it many times. But annoying as he is, Korea is his younger brother and one of the few nations who actually seem to truly like him; he doesn't want to say anything too devastating.

China closes his eyes and makes a humming noise in the back of his throat, seemingly deep in thought.

The nations of the world ride a continuous wave. The lows of defeat, poverty and humiliation and the highs of success, prosperity and power. They are forever moving up and down in an unstoppable cycle, and when the lows come, they are ruinous and agonizing.

But the highs always come again. If there is anyone who knows that, it is China.

Because at that time, Yao had thought that he would never reclaim that pride. Never be able to hold his head high again. He'd thought that with the blood that leaked out of his back and from between his legs so had leaked out what remained of that previously unconquerable pride.

But he was wrong.

The nation of China is akin to an ancient and fierce dragon, deadly and proud. Even as Yao slipped into despair his people remained strong. Revolution is never pretty and is often brutal and bloody, but the spirit that his people showed and the triumph at pushing the Japanese out of their country was enough to have that prideful wind roar once more through the land.

"The worst will come," says Yao finally, "It always does. But nothing is forever, not the good, not the bad."

Korea blinks, and then smiles wryly. "Talking in proverbs again?" he teases slightly, hopping over to poke his brother's nose. Yao smiles sweetly and then hits his younger brother with a devastating sweeping kick, almost knocking him over the balcony.

"OW! Anikiiii!"

/

_Crack. _

Yao winces and sighs as his body creaks, protesting the stretches he is bending it into. Ignoring the small popping sounds his knee is making, China bends his leg and leans to the side, moving his arms slowly and rhythmically as he goes through some Tai Chi motions, breathing deeply as he circles his arms around his head and leans to the other side.

_CRACK. _

Yao makes a face, pausing in his stretch to place a hand on his back.

It didn't even _hurt. _Did his body just find the need to make questionable sounds because it was old, and no other reason?

Yao sighs again, sinking back down into the position and seeking to once again enter that relaxed state, listening to the sound of the wind rustling the leaves to soothe him.

A small smile creeps onto the ancient nation's face and he moves into the next position more fluidly, feeling his tenseness fade away-

"Dude, seriously. _What _are you doing?"

China lets out a little yelp and jumps a bit into the air, whirling around to face the voice that has shattered his ever-so-fleeting peace.

_Of course, _thinks China as a familiar blonde haired, blue eyed, burger munching nation appears in his vision. He has an extreme urge to leap forward and kick some respect into the impudent young man, but settles for facepalming instead.

"Were you like, air bending?" asks America, his head tilted to the side, "Because the air isn't moving all that much. I mean, there's a breeze but I really don't think-,"

"Tai chi," spits out China from between clenched teeth, slowly dragging his hand off his face, "It is a form of relaxation, America. Relaxation that you _rudely _interrupted."

America blinks, and then nods seriously, as if in total understanding. "I totally gotcha," he says, giving the older nation a thumbs up and a grin, "I remember that the air guys were monks and did all that meditation stuff. Coolio. You just keep at that alright?"

_Take a deep breath and count to ten in your head…_

"Did you come here for any particular reason, America?" asks Yao stiffly, having stifled the urge to beat the Western nation with a wok, "Perhaps to discuss, oh I don't know, a certain _debt?_"

All of the colour drains from America's face and he laughs weakly, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. "Yeah…about that...bye!"

Yao blinks, surprised at the abruptness, before releasing a stream of Chinese curses as the American turns tails and flees, shaking his fist angrily at the teen's retreating back.

_Honestly, no respect or any sort of honour in the young these days. _Huffs the Asian nation internally as he lowers his arm and ceases his angry yelling. Taking a few more calming breaths, Yao sinks down into the grass, stretching out in a lazy and loose way that he usually doesn't succumb to.

_Foolish, young nations. _

_The highs and lows always come and always go, but that is for nations that are strong enough to maintain them. Strong enough to weather the constantly changing tides. _

Yao closes his eyes and then opens one, staring in the direction America fled.

_This will be your first serious low, America. Are you strong enough for it? Can you bear it? Will you survive long enough to make it to your next high? _

China blows out a breath, collapsing into the grass with his arms spread out to the side as he lets his mind drift away and his body relax.

_Or will you crumble into dust like so many before you?_

**I was so surprised at the number of people who apparently read my ginormous Author's notes. You really, actually, read all of this? O.o**

**(1) **"_**And where is your pride now, Big Brother?" **_**At least I hope that's what it says. I translated it myself and I **_**suck **_**at sentence structure. So it might actually say **_**"And now pride of you Big brother is where?" **_

**Oh, and Dì Dì means little brother.**

**So….Yeah. I'm so sorry this sucks so much. It was one of those chapters that was a bitch to get off the ground and when I finally got it going I just wrote whatever the hell popped into my head and it came out kinda messy. I edited as much as I could, but now I must cut my losses. T_T **

**So, the Opium War. First and Second. Pretty much as I explained in the chapter. British liked Chinese tea. They were buying it for lots of silver. Despite how much the British loved tea, they loved money more. So they came up with an ingenious method! Trading a drug for tea instead of money. And then when the Chinese tried to stop the trade a whole bunch of unfortunate things happened and a boat carrying opium was sunk and the British were like 'you sunk our boat so we must go to war' while the real reason was to make sure they could keep trading Opium. The Second War was a bit bigger and the ending sucked even **_**more **_**for China with a whole bunch of reparations which had them taking shit from not just Britain, but from France and Russia too. As well as having to open up their harbours to foreigners. **

**It really, really sucked.**

**In 1931, the Japanese began moving into Manchuria. They didn't officially invade China until 1937 though.**

**I don't even want to talk about Nanking. I did some extra research on it for this chapter and the information I found just made me sick. Go Wikipedia it, I really don't want to talk about it.**

**The Bloodbath 2010 says that China likes to relax in old t-shirts and shorts. That actually surprised me, but hey! **

**The whole thing on China's pride is my own personal headcanon, fueled by the lyrics of his character song 'Aiyah, 4000 years'. It's how I see his character, but of course, you are completely free to disagree with me. ^_^ **

**All that said, today was my first day of school. I didn't have much homework today, which was why I was able to finish editing this, but I know my life is going to turn into hell soon. There aren't many chapters of this left so I'm going to do my best to finish it, but don't expect an update every week anymore. :'(**

**Some of you guys were hoping for Korea. I've had the order planned out since the beginning so I kinda smiled secretively when I read those reviews. I'll do my best to make next chapter awesometastic!**

**Reviews are much loved, especially if you want an update before Christmas! (No, I'm not joking. School is going to murder me)**

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p **


	10. With that EverPermanent Smile

**So. **

**I last updated just over two weeks ago, which means this is only a little over a week late. That's not too bad, right? **

**That said, this chapter is a pile of babbling nonsense but I kinda like it. I sort of did what I did for Arthur's chapter and just wrote without having any idea what I was writing. So it's a little weirder and more disjointed then the other chapters. **

**Also, I apologize for the excessive K-Pop references. **

**Oh, and I turn sixteen in 30 minutes! **

_Yong Soo Falls with that Ever-Permanent Smile_

"_Sorry, sorry, sorry…." **(1)**_

He is splayed out on the bed, legs propped up against the wall as he taps his fingers against the mattress and bobs his head up and down, a wide grin on his face as the happy beat fills his mind. The headphones that cover his ears are blasting loud, electronic beats that reverberate both within his head and around the room. The music is loud, but that is the way he likes it.

IPods, Yong Soo thinks, are the best part of technology and the future. All of his precious music and boy groups and girl groups and videos and posters and pictures at his fingertips. It is all wonderful, really.

But it's the music he loves the most.

Music, in his opinion, is the best part of this world. There is nothing quite like a melody floating on the wind or pounding in your ears and no feeling like stomping you feet and moving your body and feeling your soul align with the soul of the music.

People accuse the Korean of having his head in the clouds, while truthfully, his head is filled with guitar and drums and electronic beats and his wondrous music that is taking the world by storm.

_Oh yes. _He is so _so_ proud of how his music has spread around the globe. How it is listened to and heard in countries in Europe and North America and everywhere. So proud.

The word 'pride' rolls around Yong Soo's head and an amused smile quirks his lips upwards.

He is proud, but not _quite_ as proud as China. He doesn't think anyone is as proud as China. It is almost what his beloved elder brother is known for.

The smile fades.

A frown.

_All of Asia seems to be known for something._

Proud China.

Honourable Japan.

Fierce Vietnam.

Immoveable Taiwan.

Innovative Hong Kong.

. . . . .

Idiotic Korea.

Yong Soo's eyes flutter open and he stares up at the ceiling, pale white, not covered in posters and pinups like his ceiling at home. The catchy tune streaming into his ears does nothing to lighten the suddenly somber mood that has descended as he contemplates the world's classification of him.

Idiotic Korea.

_That's how it goes, right? _

Because Korea is not like the rest of Asia. He is not calm, reserved, or oozing with ancient wisdom. His eyes aren't dark with the weight of the world and his back isn't bent with the strict tradition and regulations that usually choke Oriental countries. He is oozing with energy and happiness and excitement and his eyes are bright with life and laughter and perpetual amusement. His back is both straight with a military posture and slouched with the easy-going gait of a teenager. _He _is easygoing.

_And that is…._

Bad. Wrong. Horrible, of course. What right do you have to be happy?

_Happy? _

Living in backwards, bloodstained Asia. As crooked as Europe but twice as old, with the pain and insanity extending so much farther into the past.

What right does any nation of Asia to be happy?

_Happy? _

Happy, bouncing, Korea. No concept of seriousness or honour or pride or any of those well-known, widely expected Asian traits.

_That is what everyone thinks, isn't it? What everyone says. _

Idiotic Korea, with that smile that never fades.

At least.

Not.

Where _he _can see it.

His cheeks hurt, much like the rest of his body, from the strain of that permanently sustained smile. His face is bruised and purple and blue and the white of his teeth looks not cheerful and endearing but disturbing with red trickling from the corners of his mouth and mingling with the gore dripping down from the remains of his smashed nose.

That smile, dripping, still permanent.

If his eyes were fully visible they would be bright and glinting with amusement, but as it is they are hidden behind swollen and throbbing eyelids, black with burst blood vessels and shooting bolts of pain through his cranium.

But still.

That dripping, crooked smile remains.

Permanent.

Un-fading.

Stupid Korea.

A smack sends him flying across the floor and thudding into the opposing wall. He is still grinning as the side of his face smacks against the hard surface and cheekbones crack and splinter. And that smile is more painful than ever and there is more blood in his mouth and he

wont.

stop.

smiling.

And the curses and angry growls in Japanese can't cause the bloodstained smile to fade and he hums to himself softly. Some old lullaby. Some old song.

_And I won't stop smiling, for you. _

Lifted up by his throat. Pinned against the wall. Clothes falling into a dirty, torn, bloody heap on the floor.

And still that _idiotic-_

**-so **_**stupid **_**Korea is-**

-smile does not fade.

_Because you don't have to be afraid._

_I'm smiling so you don't have to be afraid. _

_I'm not afraid, see? I am not afraid. _

Not afraid that they lost.

Not afraid that their culture and language and very self are being forcibly ripped away from them.

Not afraid that he is completely under foreign control, both in country and body.

Not afraid.

_Because I can keep smiling like this! _

Wipe those tears away, off your cheeks.

_Even if you can't smile, I will smile for you. _

Don't let those pretty eyes be swollen with sadness.

_This smile will never fade. _

I won't let him break us.

Break us down.

Down, down, down.

Sliding down the wall.

Blood trickling down. Down his legs. It hurts. The liquid sliding across the bruises hurts. When he hits the ground and the blood begins to pool beneath him it hurts.

It hurts.

And his heart.

That hurts too.

Because his Hyung-nim taught him to be strong and proud always. And this takeover and this position that he is in and the fact that he is no longer part of a country but part of _someone else's _empire is a loss of strength and a loss of pride and a loss of _everything. _

And he is powerless.

So what can he do?

What can he _do?_

_Heh. _

He lifts up his heavy, heavy, head.

He smiles.

His body barely feels the blows that rain down on him after that. Blows for his unwillingness to submit. For his people and the way they refuse to speak Japanese, refuse to give themselves and their culture up. For the riots, the demonstrations, the resistance.

He keeps smiling.

Resistance, the others say, is futile. Because this is _Japan. _And they are just Korea. Nowhere near strong enough to put up a good fight. To win. To free themselves.

No one believes.

_Quiet sobbing. _

She doesn't believe either.

_Why are you doing this? _

Why?

Always so serious. Everyone is always so serious.

Serious China. Serious Japan. Serious everyone.

Nations. Who live forever.

_-he can hear the sound of the baton hitting his body-_

Immortal beings, unchanged by time except in spirit and character.

_-but he cannot feel it. Cannot feel-_

They are governed by their people and their government and the factors that effect their land. They are pawns. They are wisps being constantly blown about in the wind with no control over what happens to them.

_-anything except for the slight strain-_

There is nothing they can do.

_-on his face as he-_

So what else _can _they do?

_-continues to smile. _

Because China will never waver or show weakness for the sake of his pride and Japan would go to the ends of the Earth to defend his honour and never retreat or surrender.

But Korea will smile.

And Korea will hum a tune under his breath.

Maybe he will dance, just a little.

And however deep the hurt has sunk into his skin and into his bones and into even his soul, he will endure this pain and the strain on his bruised cheeks and he will smile and maybe laugh once in awhile and will sing his banned traditional songs and will pretend like the seeping of Japanese and Japanese culture into his body as the years pass isn't hurting his heart and his soul and pretend that the perpetual beating down of his people doesn't cause a sob to shake his chest and he can mourn all the young men dying in labour camps with just the barest glimmer of wetness in his eyes and he can ache for the girls taken as 'comfort women' with a shaky breath and his head held high.

And he will not let that smile fade.

_Your smile may be gone, but I will keep mine, and smile for the both of us. _

_Noona…._

…is very pretty. **(2)**

The catchy Korean R&B song bursts out of the headphones and startles him slightly before causing that familiar smile to once again spread across his face.

He really loves his music. Music in general really, but especially _his _music. It truly does inspire a type of pride in him. People look at Hong Kong business and Chinese exports and Japanese technology and animation and see how far they've spread all around the world. And now, _finally,_ Korea has something that is stretching far and wide as well.

And it is not something superficial or monetary. Rather, it is composed of melodies and harmonies and cute boys and pretty girls and the universal language that is _music. _

And for Korea, who is always _too _happy and _too _light hearted to fit into Asia and to be truly accepted into their strict social circle, being able to make himself known and make something of himself and have people _know _Korea like they know China and Japan without becoming an economic powerhouse or something to just invest in…_that _makes him proud. Maybe not the type of pride that his Hyung wanted to instill in him, but it is pride all the same.

It really does feel nice to have the world's eyes on him. To not be obscure and overshadowed and outdone by all his siblings.

At least.

It would have been nice.

To have the world look at him. To have them acknowledge him. To have them know him like they know his brothers.

If it wasn't.

For the fact.

That the world was exploding around him.

And the sky is dark and clouded with smoke and streaks of fire shoot through the air, mingling with the cracks and the booms and the shuddering of the Earth as attacks and rebuttals and defensives and offensives are launched and lost.

Even as he sits in a trench, cleaning his rifle and adjusting the too big helmet that keeps slipping over his eyes, he can't help but acknowledge the irony of the situation.

After all, he wanted to be free from Japan, right? So badly.

_So badly. _

To be free to sing and to dance and to speak Korean and to smile from happiness and not defiance.

That is what he wanted, right? To be free of oppression and pain.

And now he is free of oppression. Now he does not have to force a smile.

Because the one he was forcing a smile _for _is the one causing him pain. Causing the world to explode around him. Causing the screams and the aches and the blood and the burns and his eyes to water with smoke and maybe something else.

He sighs. Leans his head against the barrel of the weapon and slumps down.

_So what now? _

What?

_What do I do? _

What can you do?

_I don't want to fight her. _

Why are you fighting her?

_I don't have a choice. _

And why is that?

_I don't believe in what she's fighting for. I don't want to fall under the Reds. _

Is that America talking, or you?

….

America. America who has been by his side _constantly _since liberating him from Japan. America, who worked so hard to get a Korean government up and going. A _capitalist_ government. For some reason, that seemed to be the most important aspect of everything.

America.

…_Me. I am talking. …Maybe. I don't know. Maybe it's Japan talking. Who knows. _

Because that's the thing with occupation. _Everything _from the one who is occupying you beings to seep in. Language and traditions and protocols and beliefs. And Korea was occupied by Japan for _so long _that sometimes he wonders if he can be even sure that what he is thinking is Korean and not-

_-Because he didn't notice when he suddenly stopped referring to China as Hyung but rather as Aniki-_

-Japanese and he can't seem to remember how to put his Hanbok on right. As if even the simple right to wear his traditional clothing has been taken from him.

And that hurts.

That _hurts._

And then, there is America. America who is so nice and all smiles and looks like the kindest most easy-going guy and Korea again finds himself thinking about nations and what they are and everything about them because this Alfred F. Jones is the most happy-go-lucky easygoing idiot he has ever met and yet he wiped two Japanese cities off the face of the planet.

Civilian-filled cities.

Being a nation is something that Korea thinks about a lot because there are so many different expectations, depending on where you're from. To be a European nation, you must be ruthless and bloodthirsty, cunning and capable of no mercy. To be an Asian nation you must be reserved, ambitious, quiet, calculating and closed off. Hide your emotions. Hide your feelings.

_Which is why none of them like me, I guess. _

And the newest division of nationhood, being a nation of the New World. If America is anything to go by, it means you must be idealistic and optimistic and everything a nation isn't supposed to be.

Or maybe.

That's just a façade.

Because Japan can't walk.

Japan is coughing up blood.

Japan's eyes popped in their sockets.

_Pop!_

And America did that. America did that _twice._

And this idealistic not-nation who is, perhaps, the deadliest of them all, is the other nation who has occupied Korea. But they don't call it _occupied. _They say, 'help to set up a new government'. They say, 'help to get you back on your feet.'

Help to throw you into another war.

_No._

No?

_Not his fault. _

Because it's not his fault that made the two of you a battleground for him and Russia to fight. Not his fault that they put the spread of their own ideals over the two of you. _Forced _their ideals onto you and made you fight.

…_But that's just what nations do. _

And yes, it's probably true that this hatred towards the spread of Communism was probably sowed directly into his being by America. And yes, this fight is not really Korea's fight but rather a fight between two world powers unwilling to fight on their own soil.

Yes. He knows that.

_And what do you want me to do about it? Break? _

_No. _

He sits up.

_No I won't do that. _

Turns around and raises the gun.

_I refuse. _

Because pride comes in all types, he thinks. China's pride, which is pride in himself and his country and his everything. Japan's pride, which is pride exclusively in honour and loyalty. America's pride, which is pride in that freedom wish he wishes to spread whether or not anyone asks him to spread it.

_And my pride. _

He fires a single shot.

_My pride that I won't be like the others. _

The recoil has him reeling.

_I won't let government, or war, or circumstance beat me. _

He falls back onto his back.

_And I won't hide my smile for any Nation-façade. _

_Because I might represent a country. _

_But I also represent a people. _

_And I…._

_My pride…._

He struggles upwards, a searing pain shooting through his shoulder.

_Shot? _

The other men are all dead. The battlefield has fallen silent-

-_he hates silence-_

-and he manages to pull himself upright, clutching his shoulder and peeking over the edge of the trench.

She is staring back.

Her uniform is torn and the bandages that she was using to bind her chest have unraveled, and one arm is pressed to the area to hide what her hair, shorn short, can't do on its own. The other arm is limp, and blood soaks the cloth there.

Dark eyes, so like his own, staring right at him.

He meets the gaze, clutching the wound in his shoulder that is identical to hers.

_Noona…_

Her face is a mask of pain and anger and desperation. She looks frustrated and like she doesn't know what to do. The enemy is in sight. The enemy that is her twin brother is in sight and there is no one but the two of them out here and she doesn't know what to do.

_Her face looks so unhappy…_

She has never been good at smiling. Never been able to see the light and the optimism in situations.

_Which is why I would always smile for her. Smile for the both of us. _

But you can't do that now, can you?

Because they are at war. And when nations are at war everything else is forgotten. Family is forgotten. Memories and smiles are forgotten.

That is the truth of being a nation.

The truth is…

_That there is nothing to smile about. _

And if you smile then you're foolish. An idiot.

Idiotic Korea.

_And _that _is my pride._

What?

He stands up, legs numb and shaking from sitting for so long and from the pain lancing down from his shoulder. The ground is uneven and littered with bodies and limbs and blood and bits and pieces of what were once humans but he marches on, head held high.

She is still kneeling on the field, looking wary and angry and still just so lost.

He stops in front of her.

They are at war. It does not matter if they are twins or not because they are at war. Governed by their people and circumstance, controlled by their government. This is what nations are.

He drops to his knees.

And wraps his arms around his sister.

Because Korea is an _idiot. _Korea smiles when there is no reason to smile and laughs when there is no joy to be found. Korea is an _idiot _because he values family bonds whether there is a war going on or not. Korea is an _idiot _because he will hug and comfort his sister even though she is trying to kill him and he will keep smiling for her, for always.

And that idiocy is what he is proud of. What he cherishes. That he can be here, with her, and not care.

Because this, _this _hurts. More than anything else. More than anything Japan or any other nation did to them. This inability to be together. They are twins. They are two halves of the same country. War may have drawn battle lines between them but the bond is still there.

Her hands clutch at his bloodstained uniform, her face buried into his chest as she shakes silently, refusing to make a sound. Refusing to make her tears heard.

Korea won't win this war. Because this is not their war. This is a war that has torn them apart for the gains of larger countries and a war that has pushed them to an edge they never wanted to teeter on. And for two nation-children who only ever had each other, who were always the other half of one another. Two nation-children to whom being separated meant death itself.

This war has torn them in the most excruciating way possible.

They will never be whole again.

Whether the Capitalists or the Communists win does not matter. Because either way, Korea will lose.

Korea will fall.

_Both _of them.

/

"I s-still don't forgive you for this!"

Yong Soo blinks, lifting off one side of his headphones and rolling over onto his back, his head hanging over the side of the bed as he looks over at his friend, who is sitting on the other side of the room with a discontented pout on his face.

The room is echoing with loud dance beats and synthesizers, melodic Korean vocals causing to the room to vibrate as K-Pop blasts from the stereo. The boy band currently being blasted is a popular one, often praised as the _most _popular group in Korea. So amazing, so awesome, so _super, _that they have become popular all around the globe. Western countries included.

Such as Canada.

"It wasn't my decision!" defends Korea, pouting back at his friend and waving his arms about for emphasis. "I really thought it would be in Toronto!"

Canada huffs a bit, turning in the chair and folding his arms across his chest as he looks down with a somewhat forlorn expression on his face. "B-but it's not, is it? I-I was r-really looking forward to seeing all the bands here…" The blonde slumps down in his chair, looking truly dejected. Though really, he _always _looks dejected. If there has ever been a nation that is in desperate need of a smile (and a hug) it is Canada.

Which is why Yong Soo is glad they're friends. He likes making the Canadian laugh and he likes seeing that rare smile that others don't. And he likes how kind and simple Canada is. How there don't seem to be those layers of deceit and complexities and a history of, well, _evil _that surround the other nations. Canada, Yong Soo thinks, is like a fresh blanket of snow. White, peaceful, unjudgemental.

Because Canada does not have that warped layer that shrouds those other, ancient nations, so he does not look at Korea and expect _him _to have it. He doesn't frown when Korea laughs. Glare when he does something silly. Or hold contempt for him for that perpetual smile.

They're _friends._

"Sorry," apologizes Yong Soo, rolling over onto his stomach and resting his face in his hands with his elbows propping him upwards, "Maybe the concert will be there next time?"

Guilt lances through him as sad indigo eyes meet his own dark ones, before dropping back down to the floor.

"Yeah," sighs Canada, twirling a lock of hair around one finger as he continues to pout and stare forlornly at the radio currently blasting 'Cry' by MBLAQ. The blonde looks truly upset about something. Truly bothered and agitated and being eaten away at. It's different then his usual dejected 'no-one-knows-I-exist' look, but tinged with _real _worry and _read _sadness.

"Is something wrong, _maknae?" _asks Korea, sliding off the bed and crossing the room to drape himself over the side of the chair that Canada is currently occupying. "You seem really bothered by something! Are you _really _that upset about SM Town moving to New York instead of Toronto?"

A childish pout causes Canada's bottom lip to protrude slightly and he gives his friend a slightly irritated look. "I-I'm very upset ab-bout that!" he stammers with as much as force as his perpetually soft voice can muster, "B-but there is something else…,"

Korea waits patiently, watching his friend with careful eyes and head tilted to the side slightly.

"…I'm worried about my brother," sighs the Canadian heavily, fidgeting whilst biting his lip nervously, "I mean…he…well, _you know." _

There is a moment of incomprehension before Korea's entire demeanor sobers a bit and he nods.

Yes, he knows. _Everybody _knows. About America. About his trouble. About the precipice the young nation is currently teetering on.

A genuine frown downturns Korea's lips as his thoughts begin to center on the topic that the entire world has been gossiping about for awhile now. A topic that he doesn't particularly like to think about himself, as America is also his friend.

Yes, everyone _knows _about America and are _talking _about America but few people are _doing _or _feeling _or are concerned at all.

England, might be worried. Italy, who worries about everyone, is worried. Japan- -though he never would have thought that bastard capable of feeling anything- appears to be worried.

And Canada is worried. Canada is _very _worried. Because he is America's brother.

_Brothers care about each other. _

Yes. That is true. Brothers do that. Family does that. At least, normal families do. With nation-families, the rules are more flexible and breakable and nonexistent. Unless of course, the nations are New World nations. In which case, they tend to do the exact opposite of what nations generally did.

Which was why stupid, backwards Korea loves hanging out with them so much.

"I'm worried about Alfred too," replies Korea with a heavy sigh, sliding down to the floor and wrapping his arms around his legs. "But these things happen with nations. There are ups and downs all the time. I'm sure all this rotten stuff will pass soon!" Yong Soo punctuates his remark by hopping up and smiling broadly at his friend, one of his widest most idiotic smiles.

While that idiotic smile ostracizes him from the other nations and has labeled him a fool, it brings a shy smile and nod from Canada.

"I-I sure hope so," he says softly, staring off into the distance, "I'm so worried…"

Korea freezes for a moment, torn between a reassuring remark, another smile at the sweet concern the Canadian has for his brother, and _something else. _

_Something Else? _

That something else being a twinge of jealousy and hate and pain as he thinks of the non-existent nothing but hate relationship he has with the sister who meant the world to him. His sister who he went through hell and back for. His sister who was his other half. The other side of his heart. That sister who he smiled for. Always smiling. For her.

Because it wasn't the _war _that tore him apart. It wasn't the war that bit into his soul and his heart and tore chunks out of them. No. No it wasn't. It was the _armistice. _It was the _you two are now separate countries. _It was the _there is hate and discord and nothing but pain between you. _It was the _you will never be whole again. _

That's what kicked him in the ass and booted him off the proverbial cliff that every nation finds themselves tumbling down. _That. _That realization. That empty spot that his sister is supposed to fill. _That. _

"S-sorry for whining like this!" stammers Canada, apologetic as always, "It's just, I-I care about my brother so much, you know?"

Korea smiles, a smile that might be a little sadder, a little more bitter, a little more heartbroken than the ones he usually gives.

"Yeah," he says softly, still smiling. _Always _smiling.

"I know."

/

Silence.

If there is one thing that happy-go-lucky Korea actually _hates, _it is silence. Lack of noise, lack of distraction, lack of anything but his own thoughts is something that has the potential to drive him crazy.

Well.

Crazier than he already is.

So it is strange that at this moment, he is walking through the surprisingly empty halls with his headphones around his neck and not against his ears. Not hopping and skipping and stomping his feet against the floor but walking softly and quietly and-

-_walking just like a good Asian nation should-_

-with small, dainty steps that the energetic nation most certainly isn't known for.

Silence is something he truly dislikes. Silence is something that cannot be broken up with a smile. It is so…absolute. So deafening. He doesn't like it. He hates it. In fact, his hatred of silence is probably the reason he loves music so much.

And yet, here he is, in an utterly _silent-_

"Hey! Yong Soo, is that you?"

Korea startles before turning around with a wide grin, his somewhat downcast mood evaporating as a familiar and welcome voice booms around the empty passageway and quickly banishes that damnable silence.

"Alfred!" chirps Yong Soo, skipping forward to meet the American halfway, slapping the teen a high five before rocking backwards on his heels and grinning. "Long time no see!"

Alfred grins, blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses and face lit up like a firework. As usual, he looks ridiculously happy. He has that smile on his face that is now a common trait associated with the 'new' world and that easy-going air which has labeled him as an airhead, much like it has Korea.

_Isn't it sad? That any nation who is 'happy' who is 'joyful' is therefore 'idiotic' and 'stupid'? _

_Isn't it sad? _

"Man, it sucks that we're all here together but we're so hung up with meetings that we never get a chance to chill," huffs Alfred, folding his arms across his chest. "I sooo wanted to check out that new Drama of yours! City Hunter, right?"

"Yup!" answers Yong Soo with a grin. "Lee Minho at his finest! I have some episodes one DVD, so we should totally hang together and watch it if we get the chance!"

Alfred smiles back and nods enthusiastically, launching into a wave of plans and suggestions for the next time the two of them have a chance to meet up.

Korea watches with that same smile. That ever-permanent smile. The smile that will never _really _fade and the smile that he will wear even if it brands him the dunce of Asia. Because he likes it. He likes smiling. He likes being happy. His people are a happy people. They are filled with pride and _Korean Spirit, _as it were. He has been through countless hardships and pain and his heart is still missing that ever-important piece.

But he can still smile.

And he _likes _to smile.

And Korea watches America, who also has a permanent smile, and who has also been branded an idiot. It might be that morbid and ambitious side of him that comes from being a part of backwards, bloodstained Asia, but he is curious. Curious to see how America, Alfred, his friend, will react. What, he wonders, will happen to that smile? Where will it go? What will become of it?

What will become of _him? _

Yong Soo stifles a sigh as he follows America down the hallway, that smile still plastered on his face.

_It's like China says. The highs and lows come and go, and there's nothing we can do about it. _

_After all, _

_We're just a couple of idiots, right? _

/

**1. Sorry, Sorry- KPOP song by Super Junior**

**2. Noona is very pretty (Replay)- A KPOP song by SHINee**

**_Hyung= _older brother (boy to boy)**

**_Noona= _older sister (boy to girl)**

**_Maknae = _Hm...not sure how to translate this. Sort of like 'baby'? As in, the youngest. For example, Onew is the oldest member of SHINee, so he is Hyung. Taemin is the youngest, so he is Maknae. **

**And for some reason it felt weird for Yong Soo to call Canada Matthew, but they're close friends so 'Canada' would have been too formal so I was like 'nickname!' and all I could think of was Maknae, since Canada is one of the youngest nations (or so everyone thinks). OTL**

**And I referred to Korea as Korea and not South Korea because I am _lazy _dammit. I reason it by saying that people call South Korea, Korea and North Korea...North Korea much like the way people refer to the Italies. North Italy is the Italy everyone generally deals with so he's 'Italy'. And South Korea is usually what people are referring to when they talk about Korea. So there. **

**Buh. Should not have Korea and Canada in a chapter together. Korea is my favourite character to write about and Canada is my home country. I **_**will **_**ramble on forever if they are placed in the same chapter. **

**Long chapter is **_**long. **_

**Anyhoo, if you're wondering what the heck is going on in the part with Canada and Korea, there is this music label called SM Entertainment in Korea, and it has all the TRULY SPECTACTULAR AWESOME boy bands like Super Junior and SHINee. SM holds something called 'SM TOWN' in different parts of the world where all the different bands in their label perform. Last year, it was in Paris. There were rumours that this year it was going to be in Toronto and we were all **_**so excited **_**because goddamn I want to see Donghae's beautiful face in person but then SM was like 'Toronto? Where's that? Is that a place? What country is that in? Ah, screw it let's just have it in New York.' **

**8( **

**F*CK YOU SM ENTERTAINMENT HENRY IS FROM CANADA YOU BASTARDS WHY THE HELL WOULD YOU TROLL US SO HARD.**

**I'm still really smarting about the whole thing, if you can't tell. **

**That said, my headcanon says that Korea and Canada are best friends. One, Koreans love Canada. No seriously. In all those Korean reality shows they always get sent to Canada. Plus they're really grateful for our part in the Korean War. And Koreans just love studying in Canada. **

**And the crowning moment of awesome that made me squee when I saw it, is that in volume 2 of the manga, in Korea's character profile it says 'He loves Canada'. **

**HE LOVES CANADA. **

**CanKor is my forbidden OTP and **_**hot damn **_**did reading that ever make my every day. XD**

**Alright, history time.**

**Japan annexed Korea in the early nineteenth century. It was really bad. They tried to crush the Korean culture and sent the young men to labour camps and took the women as 'comfort women' for the Japanese army. Korea was freed from the North by the Soviets and from the South by the Americans in WW2. The two sides then helped set up governments in the two sections and the plan was to reunite the two halves of the country when everything was stable. But the Soviets set up a Communist government and the Americans set up a Capitalist one. **

**And then North Korea invaded South Korea to try and make them one Communist country but America got the UN involved and thus, the Korean War.**

**The whole thing kind of irritates me because, like I said in the chapter, it was just the Soviets and Americans using another country to fight their battle. Vietnam was the same thing. **

**Oh, and did you know North Korea and South Korea are still technically at war? They signed an armistice, not a peace treaty. O.o**

**This story is nearing its end, as you can probably tell. I'm excited for next chapter so hopefully it will be out soon!**

**Long author's note is _long. _**

**Review my lovelies~ You always make such smiles appear on my face when you review~ Review for my sweet sixteen~?**

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**


	11. Into Perpetual NonExistence

**This isn't too late of an update, right? **

**Longest chapter so far, I believe. It's decent. Not awesome but not horrible. I got annoyed at the ending but everytime I tried to change it...well...it didn't work. So... *shrug***

**Warning: Lots of history notes at the end. But they're interesting so I think you should still read. :3**

_Matthew Falls into Perpetual Non-Existence_

Snowing.

Fluffy, white flakes drifting slowly and serenely to the ground. Cold and wet, each with tiny intricacies; so unique, so fine, so beautiful.

The cool breeze that stirs the air causes them to spin and twirl around each other in some majestic, and yet, simple waltz. The whistling of the empty branches an eerie yet beautiful accompaniment to the swirling dance.

He loves winter.

Absolutely adores it.

And he really,

_Really_

Wishes it were winter right now.

Matthew slumps down, sitting in front of a fan that isn't really cooling him down so much as it is circulating the stagnant, hot air of the room. The vent in the corner is doing a much better job with the cool air it is blowing upwards. However, a certain white bear is currently stretched out on top of it and the blessed air conditioning stops at his furry body and goes no further. Both ventilation systems are really doing nothing to cool down the room, or the overheating Canadian within it.

_I wish it were winter…_

Matthew removes his glasses, wiping perspiration from the area around his nose and blowing damp strands of hair away from his face. His hair is up in a ponytail but that doesn't stop his bangs from plastering themselves to his forehead and generally adding to his feelings of discomfort and heat.

He _really _wishes it were winter.

Not that he has a problem with summer, because really, he doesn't. Despite popular belief there _is _summer in Canada and he is used to intense heat. He likes the heat. He likes to bask in the sunlight just like anyone else.

It's just.

He likes winter _more. _

But it's summer and here he is, in America. For some reason or another. A meeting, a birthday; he isn't quite sure anymore.

Matthew sighs.

It is really hard to get a sense of purpose or sense of direction or a sense of 'why exactly am I here' when there _is _no sense and no answer to the question because no one _could _answer it or _would _answer it because as far as they were concerned there was simply a blank space with the _vaguest _sense of presence there and absolutely _no _sense of purpose or _tangibility _or even _existence. _

_Invisibility. _

Unseen. Unheard. Forgotten, always. Just the _slightest _acknowledgement and the _slightest _awareness that oh perhaps someone is there what when who ah, America wait no who?

Matthew sighs again, letting his forehead fall forward against the fan, his eyes slipping shut as the rushing air continues blowing his hair away from his face.

A polar bear in a snowstorm. That's what he is. A polar bear in a snowstorm with the only thing visible being the black nose and dark eyes. Just the slightest of hints of existence. The bare minimum. If not for those tiny tidbits, there would be no evidence of existence whatsoever.

Lost in a perpetual snowstorm.

Always lost in the snow.

But then again, he thinks, 'lost' might be the wrong term for it. While he never quite knows where he's going he never has a destination to get _to. _He is quite content to spend his days wandering the vast forests, running between trees with his feet slapping against the frozen ground and the biting wind blowing through his hair. The land is _his, _he knows. His to roam. His to bask in. His to breathe in. His thoughts are a jumbled mess of different tribal values and legends and spirits and hunts and war, but at his core is the knowledge that _this _is him and _this _will always be him.

_Him _is a very large place, he realizes quickly. It's like both his body and mind are disjointed and consist of loosely connected fragments, spread across a vast land dotted with people whom he can feel and breathe and who he _is. _This land, him, is still waiting to be explored. He has not yet seen all the parts of _him _but very much wishes to do so. However, he is also content to stay by the fire and in the tent of the kind mothers and run with the men on the buffalo hunt.

But now there is a weird fire and weird thoughts that make his blood boil and his eyes narrow and everything churns together and there are _new _voices and new _traditions _and _new _everything and he finds himself walking north and north and north and the ground under his feet gets colder and colder but he finds himself more used to it than he ever was before and he thinks it is because of this _new _that has sprung up suddenly.

And then he finds them.

All wild and war like. Long hair and long beards and axes and clothing he's never seen and voices he's never heard and it is all _new _but it is now all _him. _

And dark hair lightens and tan skin pales and his eyes brighten with an unusual purple hue as the Raven and the Totem are pushed aside by the Norse gods of Thunder and War.

It's a rippling time of change and growth and the new customs cause his head to ache and his eyes to burn but then they settle and they take root and he wields an axe as well as he wields a spear and can recite the tales of Loki and Thor as well as he can recite the tales of the Great Mother. The cold is suddenly much more welcoming than it once was and a new sense of _here _and _him _has warmth culminating in his chest.

Because for the first time there are _others _like him. _Others _with that fire in their eyes and that _pull _and that _power _and he always thought that _he _and _this _and the him that is this land were everything but know he knows there is _more…_

And it's like he's opened his eyes and woken up.

For the first time he has a _name. _Because the tribes all call him something different and they are all names for the little boy he appears to be. But this new man- the man who is like him -gave the him that is the land a name.

_Vinland. _

And it's like a spark of fire that runs through him and all of a sudden his eyes are _open _and he can see the world beyond his own body and this land and he can really feel his people as they are and he begins to get this _sense _of himself.

And the most staggering and profound of all the feelings that surface after his first encounter with another nation is the realization that he is most definitely _not _alone.

Never alone.

After all.

How can you be alone if you don't exist?

As usual, Matthew brushes aside the pained twinge that the thought causes to lance through him, concentrating instead on trying to remember when the next meeting is or where he has to be in five minutes. Matthew is quite aware of the fact that he is more than a little spaced out and loses track of time shamefully easily. Lost in his thoughts, always. Those thoughts that he can't share. That no one wants to hear. That no once _can _hear.

_You can scream in a crowded room and no one will hear you. _

He tries not to dwell on it. When he is lost in his thoughts he tries his very hardest to exile those troublesome words like _alone _and _invisible _and _insignificant _that make his stomach churn and his chest ache and his eyes sting and-

He tries very hard to ignore it. Everything.

That might be why he spaces out so much, he thinks. To be aware of surroundings that don't acknowledge him. To participate in a situation that doesn't recognize or _need _him. To pay attention to a world who barely remembers his existence.

That would hurt. It would hurt far too much. It would hurt in places he never wants to hurt again.

If he were to pay attention, to truly watch and listen, then he would become painfully aware of how _alone _he actually is.

_Alone. _

He has never really felt it before. Never. He has the tribes and he has the land. That has always been enough for him. Always.

But when the Vikings leave he is left with a profound emptiness in his core, a lack of warmth and a lack of comfort that he never before known he needed.

And for the first time he feels himself feeling…_lost. _Actually feeling lost and unsure and _what now? _He can't be content with the natives anymore. Because he knows there is more. He knows that there is a different way of doing things and a different people and a different world.

And his new, wide-open eyes flush with water at the weight of loneliness that suddenly descends. He doesn't _want _to be alone. He wants more than the tribes now. He wants more then himself. He suddenly finds himself longing for that warmth that others like him bring. Pining after it.

So when _he _comes, it's like the sun has suddenly risen. Like the forest is full of warmth again and he no longer feels quite so lost. There is _another _here again. _Another _nation to talk to and to feel and to make him feel not so alone.

And so, it is kind of unfortunate that the first thing he does when he meets France is stab a spear through the man's chest.

But he can't help it, really. He has spent time only in the company of Vikings and Savages. **(1)** There is not an ounce of 'civilized' behaviour in him and even as he is excited and thrilled by this new nation-man that has suddenly come before him he also wants to _fight _him and make it perfectly clear that this is _his _land. That _he _is the land and that this other nation is just visiting.

Though it quickly becomes obvious that France is _not_ just visiting.

He, or rather, his people, is here to stay.

These new people with their strange clothes and strange speech he's never heard before and their strange ways and how unused they are to the land that is _him. _They are here to stay. But France, France is not here for the land like his people are. France is here for the little boy that _is _the land.

And the little boy, once he has finished trying to claw the Frenchman's eyes out, finds it an odd but pleasant experience to so completely hold the attention of one person. Of another nation. Because France spends every moment with him. He spends every moment teaching him his language,

-so he can stop growling and whistling and gargling, as Francis so eloquently puts it-

-teaching him maths and geography. And teaching him about the rest of the world. Teaching him all about the other nations that are far across the sea. Big nations and small nations. Barbaric nations and civilized nations and nations that are barely nations but are nations anyways. Teaches him that he is most certainly _not _alone.

And the little boy, who is now called Mathieu, believes him with every fibre of his being, because he has never felt less alone in his life. Because he is now France's little brother and because Francis is going to take care of him and be there for him forever.

_Even when France has to go back to Europe- _

Because France teaches him how to dress well and how to eat with manners and how to write-

_-and he doesn't hear from him for years and years and years-_

-and France puts up with the warlike ways that he can't seem to completely shake. Puts up with the snarling and the random bursts of temper and his nasty habit of lunging for the throat-

-_and then for the first time there is bloody and brutal fighting and it is nothing like the wars between tribes and he feels enemy soldiers running over his land over him like fire ants and all he wants is France but-_

-and France tucks him into bed at night, the softest bed he has ever lay in, and croons French lullabies into his ears-

_-and then it is spring and everyone waits with baited breath to see the ships that come up the river and Mathieu's body is bruised and his spirit and heart are tired and he just wants Francis to scoop him up-_

-And Francis loves him. _Loves _him.

Loves him so much that he calls him a barren wasteland.

Loves him so much that he begs England to take him instead of his Caribbean colonies. Because they are so much more useful and profitable and warm and-

Loves him so much that he doesn't even say goodbye. Just leaves him with some men who escort him to the British camp. To his new home. To his new master.

_Why? _

_Why? _

_France? _

_Francis? _

_Papa? _

…_Why? _

And then he is alone again.

He waits, in a camp full of bragging men speaking a language he doesn't know. In a tent so unlike the soft bed he shared with Francis. In an atmosphere so different from the one of New France. Alone. That hollow feeling thrumming more strongly than ever in his chest.

And then the nation known as 'England' finally comes, the nation who France hates and who his people hate and who Mathieu knows nothing about other than hate.

And he is nice.

He is _so _nice.

And he is all apologetic about the situation and says to try and make the best of it and promises that Mathieu can keep his language and religion and pats his head and _what a terrible man that France is how could he leave such a darling colony as yourself alone? _

Alone.

Whether it is said in Algonquin or Norse or French or now English, he is really, _really _starting to hate that word.

But England promises that Mathieu will never be alone again. He promises that there is nothing to worry about and no one will leave him and no one will take him because it is _impossible _to take anything from England.

And young as he is, Mathieu doesn't miss the ominous tone behind the words.

But England's hand is so warm and he _really _does not want to be alone again. He has hopes. Maybe. Maybe this time. Maybe it will be…

_And yet…_

While his time with France was happy and full of love and ultimately ended with disappointment and lies and the breaking of promises and trust, his time with England is the continuous breaking of promises so that no trust is ever formed.

England promises to spend time with him. Promises to teach him more about Britain and about the _sophisticated _side of life that no French Frog could be aware of. Promises to tell him stories and to play with him and promises, promises, promises.

But none of it ever happens.

_None of it. _

And what hurts, what makes his chest burn and his eyes sting, is the fact that England does do all of those things. He does them, and he does them frequently.

Just.

Not with him.

And though he is surrounded by other colonies and England is often there Mathieu feels like there's a wall of glass separating him from everyone else. Like all those other nations are on one side of the glass while he is trapped on the other. Completely alone.

There is something about him that makes him invisible to the nations of the world. Maybe it's because he is so quiet. Maybe it is because he is trying so hard to control his temper and be nice to everyone and to stay silent-

_-because children are to be seen not heard and certainly should not be whooping battle cries-_

_-_that he's managed to erase everything that is himself. He suppresses his tribal and Norse side for France, and he suppresses his French side for England. And what is left?

A bunch of suppressed personalities fighting to break out beneath the quiet and calm exterior of a polite English youth. He doesn't speak much because the words might come out in French. He stays away from others because he still feels the stirrings of the natives and the Vikings left _such _an impression on him that he never knows when his temper might snap. He fades into the background so that he doesn't make a nuisance of himself and cause England to abandon him like everyone else has.

And.

Somehow.

Doing all this.

He manages to erase his own existence.

Who is he?

Who is the one that never speaks?

The one who never does anything? Rarely fights, rarely quarrels, rarely does anything but sit in the corner with his polar bear.

Who is the one who is too shy to play games? Too afraid-

-_that he might get too rough and accidentally behead America or Australia-_

_ -_to take the chance?

Who is the boy who stayed home while his brother fought for his independence? The boy too complacent too comfortable too afraid of being alone to fight for his own?

Who is the boy who lost his temper? The boy who 'snapped' and marched across the border to set his brother's heart aflame? Who watched that white wood blacken with violet eyes smiling and the most malicious of smirks?

Who?

Was it not England? England burned down the White House, didn't he? Of course, who else could? Certainly not the boy from the North. Oh no, he's far too shy. Even though the Americans burnt down York and that boy certainly had the greatest motive and the greatest anger-

But who is he?

He is a who.

So he can't have done it.

Of course.

He can't have done anything.

Nothing notable.

He can't have marched to war.

Well,

Maybe.

Because he is an English colony and has to defend his master. But such a shy, unimportant boy can't have done anything much.

What is Ypres?

What is the Somme?

What is Passchendaele?

And that Ridge. That strategic military position that the French couldn't take and the English couldn't take. Who was it that executed a brilliant maneuver and captured the 'impenetrable' Vimy Ridge from the Germans? Who? Who was it? Who could it have been?

The Americans, perhaps? Because they won the war. Because of course it is the Americans who fought for all of two years who won the war. Not those who fought for longer. Not that insignificant one who no one can remember. Not the one who the Germans refer to as 'stormtroopers' with their ferocity and tenacity.

No.

Because who could that be?

And when it all happens again..

Who is the Cinderella Army?

Who marches through Italy and fights street battle after street battle while the others march to Rome and are exalted and heralded?

Who frees the Dutch and shelters their newborn monarch? Who christens the hospital room as Dutch property so that the baby will be born on their own land?

Who?

That empty space.

Who does not fight.

Who always tries hard to peacekeep because he never knows when those not-so-dormant sides of himself will snap because he likes being a kind, peaceful nation and fears more than anything that bloodthirsty nature that resurfaced during the World Wars to come out again.

Who?

Who indeed?

Why, no one of course.

No one at all.

Because he is who.

And he doesn't exist.

He can't exist.

Not anymore.

It's his own fault.

So he'll sit here, quietly. Smiling.

Alone.

Because how can someone that doesn't exist ever be acknowledged?

How can someone that isn't here ever be seen?

_I lost sight of myself in the swirling snow. _

_Unrecognized, unseen, I fall into futility. _

_Fall into invisibility._

/

Ice cream, Matthew thinks, is one of the greatest achievements of mankind. The sweet taste of vanilla, with the sugary and familiar taste of maple overtop of it, all in a creamy and cold package reminiscent of the sweet and sugary side of winter itself…

He loves ice cream. And he loves eating it as well. With friends, if he can. Because such a wonderful thing always tastes better shared, right?

If only those friends could remember who you are.

"Maple!" squeaks Matthew as he thuds down onto the pavement with glasses askew on his face and a bright bruise quickly forming on his cheek. He curls up into a ball, shielding his head and sniffling as a heavy boot digs into his side.

This is an occurrence that happens often, so _very _often. An occurrence that he has become quite used to. His own existence being so obsolete, on the rare chance that someone _does _see him they automatically assume that he is someone else, the one to whom he is closest in appearance. It is easier to think he is another nation than try and call forth the memory of someone who does not exist in any significant form. Even his friends are guilty of the action.

That's just the way it is.

Matthew stifles a sigh as a painful punch thuds into his stomach, sure to leave a bruise larger and darker than the one already marring his face.

He could…do something, he thinks. It is entirely possible that he could do something to stop all of this. He could shout. He could scream. He could stamp his feet and wave his hands and cry out 'Je suis _moi_! Regardez-_moi_! C'est _moi _qui est ici!' **(2)**

But he doesn't have high hopes for that. He really doesn't think that anyone would hear him. See him. Care. Undoubtedly, they would think it was America doing some amount of foolishness for attention. Again.

But then…

Then there is something else he can do. Something dark and sinister and something that he does not and should not and cannot consider. He is invisible because there is nothing to see. He is invisible because he has broken himself down into little individual pieces that are securely locked away; leaving only an identity that is barely him.

But.

If.

He was to unlock all those pieces.

If.

He was to get mad, just once.

If.

He could show everyone that there is something to his existence. Something more. Something beyond the polite, nondescript British colony. Something. Something.

Something like the soldiers who burnt down the whitehouse.

Something like those stormtroopers on the fields of France.

Something like the street fighters in Ortona.

Something like…

Something like…

As a fist once again slams into the side of his face, an image of his first meeting with France flashes thorough his mind. The spear in his hand. The feeling of the pointed tip entering flesh, the spray of blood, the sense of self-satisfaction the _yes I can defend myself, yes this is me, yes I am a warrior. _

Something like that feeling.

_-and his hand clenches into a fist and he feels that surge of heat and anger and murderous joy-_

"Hey! Fat Commie bastard! What the hell do you think you're doing to my bro?"

Matthew's head jerks up slightly, hands lying flat at his side as his eyes widen in surprise. There is shouting from above him and he hears angry yelling in both Cuban and English before there is the sound of heavy footsteps fading away.

A firm hand grabs onto the back of his hoodie and hauls him to his feet, pulling him upwards and making a show of dusting off the nonexistent dust on his clothing.

Slowly, Matthew raises his gaze, blinking slowly through his crooked glasses as his eyes refocus and he recognizes the blonde-haired, blue-eyed head in front of him.

"Are you alright, Mattie?" asks Alfred, holding his brother firmly by the shoulders and turning him this way and that in an attempt to thoroughly examine the other for injuries. Matthew blinks, staring at his brother with a mix of confusion and blankness and _you're here now? Really? You're going to be my hero when it's your fault that-_

No.

_What? _

You can't blame him. You can't blame him because he's visible and you are not. You can't blame him. You just can't.

_Of course I can't. Of course I shouldn't. Parce que je suis gentil et timide et je n'accuserai jamais quelqu'un pour une faute de moi. Une faute de mon Coeur. __**(3)**_

His Heart.

His stupid, weak Heart that always wanted to be accepted and loved and _not alone _but ended up erasing its existence instead.

_Stupid Heart. _

If anyone is to blame, it's his goddamn Heart.

"Mattie? Earth to Matt? Hey Matthew, anyone home?"

Matthew blinks, snapped out of those self-deprecating thoughts of his that he usually tries so hard to block out. Snapped back to a reality that does not include him. His reality. His painful, continuous reality. Which he is not a part of.

Well.

Except for one part.

And so Matthew-

_-sweet, patient, kind, not angry, not bloodthirsty oh no-_

-smiles softly, ignoring the pain that lances through his much bruised face as he does.

"I-I'm okay," he stammers quietly, demure and polite as always, "Th-thanks for helping me out, Alfred."

He holds the smile, beaming up at his 'twin' brother for a few seconds before the enormity of the situation- and the enormity of every other situation like it- causes his gaze to become even softer and a bit wetter and his all presence to curl in on itself with what might be discomfort or sheer devastation.

"And thanks," he says to the floor, because he just can't seem to lift his gaze upwards, "For noticing."

There is a moment of silence before Matthew looks up in that flustered way of his, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"Noticing the situation!" he clarifies, his voice much louder than it usually is as he stresses his point, "Th-the situation I was in. Thank you for noticing it." And then he smiles again, as wide as his smile can go which admittedly is nothing compared to the million-watt smile that Alfred gives in return. Meek mild, shadow of America. That is what he is at best.

But at the same time.

What he really meant was.

_Thank you for noticing _me_. _

Because Alfred does. Alfred does notice him. It is an on and off sort of thing and yes it sometimes takes the American a few seconds to remember _exactly _who Matthew is, but he _does _remember and he knows that Canada is a country and, to some degree, he knows what Canada is capable of.

And he knows that they are brothers.

He says that they are brothers.

He acknowledges this…_tie _between them. A bond of blood or of undefended borders or whatever you want to call it. But a bond nonetheless.

A bond, which, as long as Alfred keeps calling him 'bro', will always exist. Always.

Which means, essentially, that despite he himself not existing, despite hiding everything about himself and forming his own self-harm inflicting, caustic, wall of invisibility, despite being a _who- _

Matthew is not alone.

Not so long as he has his brother with him.

"No problem, Matt! What else are heroically awesome brothers for?" replies Alfred with a grin, grabbing Matthew around the shoulders and pulling him into a tight hug. Matthew laughs quietly, allowing that ever so sought after but oh so rare feeling of warmth to bubble up in his chest.

_Just like this. _

_If it's with you, like this…_

"Achoo!"

Alfred's sneeze causes his whole body to spasm, his arm unintentionally crushing Matthew against his shoulder as he does. The Canadian squeaks and wiggles out of the grip, fixing his glasses and looking at his brother with a thoroughly affronted expression.

Rubbing a hand under his nose, Alfred smiles sheepishly, laughing weakly as he sniffles once more before shaking his head and offering his brother a wide grin.

"Sorry man," he apologizes with a shrug, "It's this cold, y'know? Still trying to shake it." Alfred looks embarrassed but not too troubled by it, beginning immediately to yammer about something he has recently seen on T.V. and outlining outrageous plans for the two North Americans to perpetrate once they have some free time.

As always, he seems largely unperturbed.

Matthew, not so much.

The Canadian has paled, as he tends to when his brother's current situation is brought up.

He just can't understand how Alfred can sit there and…_smile. _Smile and laugh and joke and flit about as if absolutely nothing was wrong. When in reality…

_Everything _was wrong.

Why can't he see it? Why can't Alfred just open his eyes and _see _it? See that his idealistic world is crashing down around him and it's not even happening _slowly _it's happening so goddamn _fast _and-

Just.

_Why can't he be more careful? _

Alfred is looking in the other direction now. Arms waving around for emphasis as he outlines some hairbrained scheme. Matthew doesn't even attempt to hide the stricken look on his face. The devastated, lost, pained look.

Because what will happen to him if his brother Falls?

What will happen to him if his only anchor is uprooted?

Maybe thinking like this is selfish. Maybe…Maybe…

But all he can think of is that _warmth _when he and his brother are laughing together and the way Alfred looks at him and _sees _him and so few nations _see _him and how the two of them can talk for hours about _nothing _and-

What is he supposed to do without that?

His friends. Friends. What friends? If Cuba recognizes him once in a blue moon he's lucky. America is the one who introduced Korea to him. The Netherlands has stopped coming with the tulips he sends over.

Who is he, really, without his brother? With the pieces that are _him _locked securely away? If Alfred's hand is not in his…

Matthew squeezes his eyes shut, hands clenching into fists as he fights to keep the hot tears from spilling over onto his cheeks.

He loves Alfred. He loves Alfred more than he ever loved France or England or Norway **(4)** or _anyone. _Because America left him yes but Alfred _came back._

_You better be okay._

_You _better _be okay. _

_I don't want to see you in pain. I don't want to see you brought to your knees. _

_But if it happens…_

_You better be okay. _

_Please. _

_If not for yourself.._

_**(5) **Pour moi, s'il tu plait. _

_Tu es mon heros, fr__ére__…_

_Alors, j'__éspere__…que tu….s'il tu plait, Alfred…_

_Don't let the fall break you._

**Guys, what the hell did I do to Canada. Like, IDE.**

**But really, us Canadians are scary mofos. I'll never forget the story of two reporters, a Canadian peacekeeper and pro-war American, who got into an argument about the war in Iraq. At the end of the argument the Canadian had the American in a headlock and was slamming his head repeatedly against the floor. I am not joking. (The book, which is non-fiction, that I read this in is called _Generation Kill. _I highly recommend it. )**

**(1) I apologize for using this derogatory term. T_T **

**(2) I am _me! _Look at _me! _It is _me _who is here!**

**(3) Because I am kind and shy and I will never accuse someone of something that was my fault. My heart's fault. ( I kinda wanted this in past tense but I'm positive that if I tried to put Futur simple into past tense it would fail miserably. As it is I think this translation is wrong. T_T )**

**(4) Okay, so the guy who discovered Vinland, Leif Erikson, was from Iceland. I'm fairly certain (but don't quote me on this) that Iceland at the time was still pretty much an extension of Norway. This was like, 3000 years ago or so. Because of this, I think it would have been Norway (if we assumed a nation accompanied Leif on his merry little journey) that visited chibi!Canada. Maybe he brought Ice along? Who knows~**

_**(5)For me, please.**_

_**You are my hero, brother...**_

_**So, I hope...that you...please, Alfred..**_

**Alright, hold on to your history hats boys and girls. I went a little crazy on this one since I _am _Canadian and all. ;3**

**I already kind of explained Vinland. Some Vikings came over, set up a settlement, chilled for a bit, then left. And never came back. I believe the climate was too inhospitable, and in addition, the few who stayed behind were killed by the natives of the area. **

**Francey-pants came-a-calling around the 1600s, I believe. Exact date I don't know off the top of my head (sorry). He and Canada (New France) had much fun times before France lost a war to England and had to give some stuff up. **

**Well, to be specific and make the things in the chapter a little clearer, the British and the French fought _in _Canada, and then winter rolled around and the supply/reinforcement ships were on hold until spring. So when spring rolled around, everyone was waiting to see which ships would come first, _aaaaand _it was the British. **

**In addition to this fight, Britain and France were fighting in Europe as well and France lost that too. So, as I said, France had to give some stuff up. Britain wanted Guadeloupe, a caribbean colony, but France was like 'Non! Take Canada!" And Britain was like 'Uh, no thanks. I'll take the tropical island." and France was like 'Non, non I swear Canada has _some _uses!" **

**No seriously, the French officials were so bitchy about Canada they called it a 'barren wasteland of snow and ice' that they had no use for. **

**So in short, neither France or England wanted Canada. :(**

**Burning of the White House during the war of 1812. Ooooooh is this _ever _a sore spot. I'm afraid to talk about it because I _will _rant. **

**So, this was another war between America and England but this time Canada got heavily involved because America was all 'manifest destiny!' and 'let's invade the crap out of Canada!'. **

**During the war the Americans burnt down York which, I believe, was Canada's capital at the time. (Again this is all off the top of my head so don't quote me) **

**In retaliation, the Canadians burned down the White House. **

**And herein, lies the dispute. **

**If you ask any American they will say the _British _burned down the White House. If you say that to a Canadian we will give you a very scary look and then attack you. **

**My personal belief is that, technically, Canadians _were _British soldiers at the time. I'm pretty sure we wore the British uniform and everything. Even in World War 1 until Vimy Ridge alot of the time Canadians were just under Britain and considered British. **

**But we burned down the White House. We did. Americans just refuse to admit that Canadians pwned them once. (That's right, I went there.) **

**Ahahaha~ Let's put that ever-so-sore topic behind us now, shall we?**

**Ypres, the Somme, and Passchendaele were all important battles (specifically to Canadians) in World War 1. Vimy Ridge was pretty much _the _Canadian battle because it was the first time a fully Canadian troop under strictly Canadian command fought. And we secured an important position that both the French and British had failed at getting. It was a pretty big deal. It pretty much made it possible for us to become more than just an extension of Britain. I believe the actual Vimy Ridge, which is in France, is counted as 'Canadian soil'. **

**Canadians had a really good rep in WW1. They were apparently super fierce fighters and the Canadian divisions (and the Australian ones I believe) were called 'Stormtroopers' by the Germans. We scared the _shit _out of them. I'm not sure if this is true, but I was told that there were high rates of desertion in German squads when they were told they would be going up against the Canadians. XD **

**All of this is part of the reason I see Canada as having been more deeply affected by the Vikings then he lets on or that anyone assumes, and that he really is a terrifying warrior at heart. **

**World War 2, Canadians called themselves the 'Cinderella Army' because they always got all the dirty work and none of the glory. In addition, Canadians liberated Holland (a region of the Netherlands) from German control. Every year they send us like, a bijillion tulips as thanks. (which is why I totally ship Neth/Can~) Also, the dutch princess was sent to Canada for safety, and she gave birth to her baby here. Because the baby had to be born on Dutch soil, the government declared the hospital room as Dutch. **

**I...think that's it. Holy crap. I think the Author's note was as long as the chapter. O.o **

**Please note that all that history was recalled off the top of my head because I have a Bio test tomorrow and don't have time to research. TT~TT I'm confident in my history-nerd skills but double check before you use this info on a test or something. '^_^**

**Also, I used translated lyrics from the song 'Aru ga Mama' by Anamu and Maki in this chapter. It's a beautiful song. You should listen to it~**

**So~ That is all! **

**Just one more chapter to go guys~!**

**Review please, pretty please, or I'll go all CANADIAN RAGE on you. :3**

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**


	12. To Fall Awake

**So. **

**Final chapter.**

**Boy, was this one ever a bitch. -_- I'm just going to go ahead and add America to the characters I can't write. ( The list currently consists of France, Russia, and Germany as well. )**

**That aside...sorry for lateness. I lost track of time. No really, I thought it had only been two week since the last update and instead it had been three, so then I worked my ass off on this chapter because I realized how late it was. **

**And we all know how well chapters turn out when I'm rushing. *sigh* **

_Alfred Refuses to Fall Awake._

_/_

_The sky._

He stares up at it, lying flat on the ground with his arms spread out to the side. The grass tickles his face, his feet, and the sliver of back exposed by his disheveled shirt. The slight discomfort the blades cause doesn't deter his gaze, and his eyes continue to stare unblinkingly upwards.

_It's so…blue. _

Indeed it is. With few wispy clouds drifting across it. The sun is bright as usual and, now that he thinks about it, looking directly upwards probably isn't a good idea. But well, he has his glasses to protect his eyes. And then again, when has he ever followed society's description of a 'good idea'? He's perpetrated plenty of 'bad ideas' that turned out great. And…..he _likes _looking directly up at the sky.

So there.

Alfred shifts position slightly, moving his arms behind his head and pulling one leg up so that it's bent at the knee. His head moves to the side just a tad as the gaze with which he looks upwards shifts from one of appreciation to one of contemplation.

Alfred, America, really likes looking up at the sky. The endless sea of blue has been nothing but a blanket of security and hope for him during all his years of existence. To America, the sky has always been something to strive for, something to reach. When he was small and reaching up towards it, it always seemed so far away. So out of grasp. But he never stopped reaching for that endless freedom and beauty. That eternity. That depth. So beyond a little nation-child, and yet, a dream he never gave up on.

Looking up at it now, Alfred wonders about all those aspects of sky that were so appealing to him. That still are. That always will be. Wonders why he always saw the sky as some sort of example. As the consistent role model in his life, something beyond the older Nations that constantly passed through his lands.

And now, with better ways to spend his afternoon but no desire to do any of them, Alfred decides to lie back and really think about that

Lie back, and think about himself.

Because even though he is young, he has a profound sense of himself. He knows there is more to him than just the body he can see in the river's reflection. Then the body that the natives can see. He knows that he can _feel_ the river and _feel _the natives and _feel_ so many other things. He knows that, but he doesn't know much else.

But then he looks up, and he sees that constant sky. That top to his world that may be covered by clouds or made unclear by rain and snow but is always there. Always above the world, regardless of the factors that affects those below it. The factors like drought and famine and war that hurt the little nation-child. But never the sky. The sky remains shining. Always free and vibrant. Where the birds can sing and dance. Where the eagle can fly. Free. Forever.

_When he was little, Alfred wanted to be the sky. _

If he thinks of it now, it was simply a dream to be a dream. A dream to be a place with no boundaries, no limits, no restrictions. Freedom, in all directions. The ability of flight to take you anywhere. The sky. A dream.

He has always wanted to be a dream.

But it's only in these recent years, lying on his back looking up at that ever-present role model of his, that America realizes that he has always_ been_ a dream.

At least, he has been one since the Europeans found him.

He's not sure if England intentionally hid it, or if the man was not aware of it himself, but America, all of it, the entire New World, was simply Europe's dream. War-torn, bloodstained, battle-weary and yet battle-ready Europe's dream. Their dream for peace. Their dream for hope. Their dream for a land not built on blood and war and shameless conquest. A new world. Untainted. For a new people to grow with no hate in their blood. That limitless land with no boundaries and endless opportunities. That dream. That dream of a land of freedom. That dream of the sky.

And America knows he fulfilled that role well. Better than Canada, losing that pure and innocent image when he was taken and conquered by England. Better than all of South America, brutalized by Spain as they were. It is America who is the dream, that much is clear. With his eyes the colour of that sky and his hope as boundless as it.

Yes, here is a nation-child unlike any nation-child before him. Here is a child raised without fear. With only one parent-nation and never having been ruthlessly conquered by another. Memories of his natives fading back with the memories of a bark-skinned Mother who exists now only in remembrance. This child with eyes unmarred by murder and tragedy. Dream eyes. Sky eyes. Those sky-blue eyes.

And when real war finally strikes, when the country is pushed to the limit by those humans in Europe who can never budge and never negotiate and never compromise on _anything- _

-_those damnable war-loving creatures those __**humans**__- _

_-_there is never any question that at last the dream has been tainted and that the only nation-child with the honest smile and painless eyes has fallen just like the others and that the fates of Nations are predictable and undeniable and now the dream must wake up.

It is inevitable.

But though young America does not know exactly his position in the thoughts of the Nations of Europe, he knows his thoughts of himself. He knows what he wants to be, what he doesn't want to be, and whom he was looking towards even before England found him/failed him.

That sky.

_That dream. _

Of no boundaries, no limitations, endless. Freedom.

This isn't a war of conquest. This isn't a war of subjugation. This is a war to fight for the dream. To fight for the right to expand past boundaries, the right to grow stronger without imposed limits, the right to be free on the soil that is him and be free under the sky that he wishes to be. The dream that he is supposed to be. The title that he unknowingly refuses to relinquish.

Never let go of.

War is forever veiled under the false guise of honour in bloodstained Europe. But a war for Freedom, for a land by the people for the people, for the right to look up at that sky without taxes weighing down your gaze-

Perhaps that.

Perhaps.

A noble, honourable war?

_There is no such thing._

But America would like to think it exists. As a new independent nation, he is looking to that sky now more than ever. The last thing he wants is to fall beneath it. To fall to those same greedy ambitions and desires and sins that all those other Nations have fallen to.

No.

Because it is still his dream to _be _a dream. To be that endless sky. And even though his heart is heavier and his thoughts hold shadows, his eyes are still bright and hopeful and he is not so battered as to give up on the hope for a brighter world. For a brighter future. Not so hurt to give up on a dream.

Never.

At some point- he's not sure exactly when -it became his duty. His…responsibility almost. To continue to be that dream. To be a shining beacon of hope for the Nations of the world. To stand tall and to continue smiling and to never give up on himself or relinquish his hope and plans for a boundless, limitless, endless land of freedom. To be the one dream of the world that never fell, tarnished and bloodied.

It's his heroic duty, he thinks. To remain the idyllic dream. To stand strong and free through everything.

And it is around the time that his people are tearing him apart, South and North bitter rivals, issue after issue, dividing ideals and economic differences, that Alfred makes a promise to himself. When bitter tears are carving tracks down his blood streaked face and he is desperately trying to hold himself together where his body threatens to split itself at the seams. That is when he decides and promises.

He promises himself that this won't break him. That this won't ever break him. Because he hears the whispers now. He hears the whispers and the doubt and he promises that he won't succumb and let them down. All of those Nations who put their hope for something better in him. All of those tired, fallen Nations. He will not let them down. He will not yield to his own pain and he will always keep that precious dream alive.

He will be that boundless, limitless, endless sky. Forever.

And it seems so noble. So good at first. He can't imagine why anyone would think ill of the idea. No, why would they?

Why would they hate that hopeful light in his eyes?

Why would they hate the way he looks up to the sky with a smile?

Why?

Why would they?

America goes through all the hardships. All the things that all Nations go through. He tastes blood and feels blood and sees blood and has blood on his hands. His soul shakes and his heart trembles and he cries bitter tears right from his core. He quavers, he wavers. That sky seems darkened and cloudy. No light. Cracks appearing in that lofty dream. Fractures in that sea of endless blue. Fissures to fall into. Fall from the dream world to the Wide Awake world in which every other nation lives. To the world where dreams are abandoned and instead of a sky of blue there is a sky of red.

The world he was created to escape from.

The world he vows never to set foot into.

Not when he has to be the hero. Not when the world is depending on him to be their only link to that boundless, limitless, endless dream.

So he greets every war with a self-assured smile. Every conflict with the belief that everything will work out. That no matter what happens justice and freedom will be served. A strong belief in himself and his people because self-doubt isn't the mark of a hero and there is no reason to be doubtful when the possibilities and the chances and the hope are endless and stretch everywhere.

He thinks it's great. He thinks it is great that he is not letting anything get to him. That he is able to hold onto the belief that true freedom does exist. That justice will always prevail. That dreams can be realized.

He thinks it's great.

The rest of the world, however, does not.

It is around the 1960s, when he and a certain Russian are butting heads and when his nation's efforts are being poured into a previously unknown, uncared about region of Asia. It is then that he first gets the sense that the rest of the world isn't so happy about him keeping the stars in his eyes. About him keeping his smiles and grins and assurances and beliefs that yes, everything will certainly be all right. Of course it will be. Everything turns out all right when you're pursuing the righteous path. When you're on the side of freedom. Trying to spread the opportunity for a life with no boundaries, no limitations, but endless.

Yes.

But the words of discord, disagreement, disdain begin to reach his ears. Harder to ignore than the deaths of his people on foreign soil. Harder to face with a smile.

_Why is everyone mad at me? _

And as the years pass by, and he is full of pride at his smile being genuine and not strained, at the continuing progress in his people, at how far the American dream has come, at how he _has _reached the sky. How man has reached beyond it.

As all of these events occur, it becomes painfully obvious that something is wrong.

There is something wrong with his image as a Dream.

_Why are they looking at you with those discontented eyes? Why the disapproval? Why the contempt? _

Smiling instead of screaming, holding burgers in his hands instead of acknowledging the blood on them, having hope for the future instead of wallowing in the past…

Not paying attention to the cracks that should be in his soul and heart. To the fissures and fault lines in his country and self. To look upwards and only see the sky.

To be a dream.

Is wrong.

It is wrong.

You are oblivious for looking past and not dwelling on your own mistakes. You are a fool for hanging onto hopeful ideals that have no place in this world. You are bigoted and headstrong for thinking that you can make the world a better place by spreading those ridiculous ideals.

That is…

_That is the truth._

_The truth of the dream and the harsh reality to counter it. _

Because apparently the world no longer has room for dreams of any kind.

/

_Step by Step. _

One foot in front of the other.

_Left Right Left. _

Keep moving forward.

Another war. Another conflict.

Another bout of blame.

_Damned if I do. Damned if I don't. _

America is a large country. It should use its power for good. Use its power to ensure world peace and prosperity everywhere. Make sure that every country is safe and free.

America should mind its own business. America should stop butting in to the conflicts of others.

Why didn't America intervene sooner?

Why did America intervene at all?

_That sky that looks over everything. Hangs above and watches over everything. _

All those wars that he's been involved in, that he's fought for others. For what he believes is right. For that dream that he always strives for.

Limitless, boundless, endless freedom.

At this point, he's being dismissed as naive and idealistic. The world is tired. They have grown tired of his sparkling eyes and wide grin and carefree attitude. The novelty of his innocence and lack of darkness has worn off. He has blood on his hands now. The dream is over. Why does he still act like a newborn idiot?

The contemptuous glances are not hidden or furtive at all. Because no one thinks he can see them. No. Of course not. He's far too oblivious for that. Walking past the troubles of the world with a smile. Carefree, happy. Still bouncing everywhere. Taking nothing seriously.

Of course the looks, and the whispers, would go unnoticed by him.

_Alfred hands clench into fists and his teeth bite down on his bottom lip-_

_-_but then he looks up at the sky. That endless sky. The sky of freedom and beauty and clarity that he strives to be. The dream. The American dream. That he never wants to relinquish.

And so he lifts his head and walks onwards. Skips forward. Humming a tune gaily under his breath.

Because he will blindly continue to pursue his dreams of democracy and justice and all those things that have been labeled overly idealistic, naive, no longer achievable. The ideas of a time past and the peeled away coating on a gilded crown.

_Chase blindly after those dreams. Run past the bombed out soil, the decimated jungles, the piles of dead bodies, the radiation burns, the lynchings, the hangings, the burnings at the stake, the murders, the rape, the war crimes. _

_Or skip past them, if you will. _

How far can you go to keep a dream?

How far will you go to stop yourself from waking up?

There is a limit, Alfred thinks. A limit to how long you can feign utter obliviousness. A limit to how long you can endure the hateful and harsh words of those around you. There is a limit.

_Bit by Bit. _

_Torn apart. _

Yes. There is a limit. But it is not one that Alfred ever plans on reaching.

Because he is what he was made to be. A dream. The dream of a continent drenched in blood and hate and hopelessness. Their dream for maybe, something more. For an innocence, a happiness, something new and foreign and maybe, just maybe, something that will last.

That dream.

Alfred, America, has never forgotten that dream. Never. To be different then all of those Nations, the ones that give up. That succumb to the horrors of the world. To be different than all of the ones who accept their hands drenched in blood and who have accepted a world of darkness where destruction is inevitable and going through each day is a chore weighed down by centuries, millennia, of existence.

To keep it.

To never lose it.

To hold on to…

His _hope. _

Hope for the future, for tomorrow, for himself, for his people, and for the world.

Dreams. To hold on to those supersized dreams of his. To chase after them. To always want to break boundaries, go further, discover more, and always maintain that freedom. That freedom that is important to him because it is what defines the sky and it is what defines the dream.

The dream that has now been utterly rejected by the world.

But that's okay.

Really, it is.

Because it's not like he's going to stop.

Oh no.

Why would he do that?

He's still the hero.

He's still the dream.

And he is always going to be. He will always fight for justice and freedom and no boundaries, no limitations, and what he thinks is right.

_No matter what. _

/

Alfred stands in front of the mirror, head tilted to the side and an unreadable expression on his face.

_America…_

With pensive eyes, the blonde takes in his reflection. The light cotton shirt that he's wearing. The simple brown slacks with his bony ankles and large feet poking out from beneath the hem. The way the fabric hugs his muscular body, defining the dips and curves that represent the strength his country holds. Regardless of the recession and debt and unemployment and all those fun things the muscles are still there and still prominent. Because America is still the leading world power, despite what people continue to say.

His gaze moves beyond his body to travel upwards to his face. Smooth. Unblemished. Pale. Golden blonde hair, tousled in that just-messy-enough movie star look. Hanging down in front of his face slightly with a rather cute lock of hair sticking straight up.

His face, he thinks, is the very epitome of the American dream. Sparkling blue eyes, cherubic and trustworthy as well as noble and courageous. Blonde hair to add to the angelic look, just long enough to look youthful but not too immature. And of course, pale skin. Because no matter how hard and how long the minorities rage this is still the image of the ideal American man.

This is Alfred F. Jones.

Alfred stares for a bit longer, before pulling a chair over from the desk on the other side of the room, lifting it off the floor in a rare case of preemptive action. Because England would certainly scold him for leaving scratch marks on the floor of the suite.

Alfred sets the chair directly in front of the mirror before plopping himself down onto it. Leaning his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together he once again centers his gaze on his reflection.

"So," he begins, clearing his throat as he sat back in the seat, "America."

He pauses and looks to the side hesitantly, as if suddenly fearing that someone is here and eavesdropping on him talking to himself. He cranes his neck over his shoulder before clearing his throat again and turning his attention back to the mirror.

"So," he starts again, rubbing the back of his head with one hand before returning it to it to its original place, clasped with the other. He lifts his eyes to meet the eyes of the reflection and something hardens in his expression. His posture straightens and all of his nervous motioning stops.

"Lots of people have been talking about you recently, huh?" he grins crookedly at himself, letting out a little bark of laughter. "Yup. You've been even more popular than you usually are! Everyone just can't get enough of you."

Alfred smiles, a soft smile that he usually doesn't give. A sad smile.

"But you know," he continues, voice just a bit quieter, a bit gentler, "It's not always good to be talked about. I know you know that. I know that you have really had enough with the talks about Afghanistan and Iraq and Vietnam for God's sake- I know you've had enough."

Alfred quiets, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before shooting back upwards to look his reflection in the eyes.

"Yeah, you're at war with this huge network of violence and crap and yeah your economy is shit," he continues, voice progressively getting lower and lower, "But…hasn't everyone been through this? Hasn't everyone…" he trails off, staring into the distance. Sharply, he jerks his head back, biting his lip slightly.

"And then everyone," he keeps going, words slow and deliberate, "Seems to think that…that this it. That our…I…me….that this is it. That this is a turning point where I'm going to go careening off that cliff that every other Nation has been kicked off at some point or an other."

Alfred quiets again, biting his lip harder as he twiddles his thumbs and stares at the ground, brows knitted together tightly.

"But…," he says cautiously, speaking as if afraid of causing offence, "But I don't get it…I….you…have already fallen so many times-,"

He pauses, his breath catching sharply. He looks up, eyes wide and angry and frustrated.

"You know death," he says, his voice louder and firmer than before, "You know war, bloodshed. You know famine and drought. You know sorrow and heartbreak. You know destruction." His hands unclasp, slowly drifting to various points on his body. The wide scar across his abdomen from the Civil War. The burn on his back from Pearl Harbour. The ancient but deep wounds from the Revolution. The slashes from every conflict he has ever been in, even the ones not on his soil.

Then, falling completely silent, his hands ghost over his legs. Over areas that he remembers being mangled and broken and burnt. Ten years ago.

Alfred closes his eyes.

He opens them again.

"You know destruction," he repeats softly, "As well as anyone. Don't know why….Don't know why everyone is acting like this is it. If the Depression didn't get you, why should this?" he manages a cocky grin, but the light doesn't reach his eyes and the smile fades quickly.

"It's a different thing they're waiting for," he says after a silence, swallowing thickly as he does, "They might not even know it, but they're not waiting for you to Fall. They're waiting for you…"

His gaze turns to the side, towards the window, and to the bright blue sky beyond it.

"They're waiting for you to wake up," he finishes, his voice barely over a whisper.

"They're waiting for you to stop smiling, to stop seeing the good, to stop pretending nothing is wrong. To stop having naïve hope for the future and to stop trying to help everyone. To stop living this dream…"

Alfred turns his eyes back towards the mirror and startles slightly as he sees a glimmering wetness gathering along the rims in his reflection. He slips a finger under his glasses and hastily wipes away the liquid, sniffling slightly as he does.

"But that's just what they're waiting for," he says, his voice holding a slight quaver despite the conviction of the tone, "That's not what is going to happen. Because guess what? Despite all their hating, you're still the most powerful nation on Earth. We're still full of the most creative and innovative mofos on the face of this planet."

Alfred grins, sitting back in his chair with his head tilted to the side cockily.

"People think we dream too big," he continues firmly, "But that's just they're old age acting up, because obviously they've forgotten what we've already done.* Because nothing is ever going to overshadow the triumph of _Colonies, _not even united as a proper country, defeating the Greatest Empire on the face of the Earth." His smile is a bit bitter and sad, because the memory is still a bittersweet one for him. But that does not lessen the pride it inspires.

"Clearly," he keeps going after a moment, resting his cheek on his fist, "They forget what free men and women can achieve when all our imagination and common purpose are joined together."* He giggles, genuine laughter bubbling up.

"Silly old men," he snorts, eyes twinkling.

"And then they have the _audacity _to say things like America is going to have to start backing down, backing off. Start considering the country's safety over constantly trying to uphold those ideals of theirs," he puts on a fake British accent as he says this, downturning his eyebrows and emulating a certain Brit to the best of his abilities. "But I reject that reality," he states firmly, ending his mockery, "Who the hell says I have to choose between my safety and my ideals*? Screw it. I'll do what I want, and do it well." He juts out his chin proudly. If he sounds arrogant he doesn't care, because he's passionate about this and just a wee bit defensive and if Canada is allowed to go on rants why can't he?

"They can hate all they want," he says, his voice lower and more challenging, "My- _Your _spirit is strong and cannot be broken. You can outlast them* and show them just what a childish dream is made of!"

He's getting more and more defensive, he realizes, but his heart is hammering in his chest and his blood is boiling. This needs to be said. He needs to say it. For himself.

"And they blame the dream," he continues, "They try and blame it. Always blaming America for everything. They should learn that they will be judged on what they build, not what they destroy* and just…just leave me alone!"

Yeah, he's getting really defensive now.

Alfred takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair and trying to quell the pounding of his heart.

"Everyone sees the dream as inconvenient," his voice is quiet again, "Something that…that doesn't fit well into this world. They see America as chasing after something that can't be reached. An impossible society. And they see me- _you, _as a country that is destroying itself by trying to be something that can't exist."

Another deep breath. He twiddles with his thumbs and looks at the floor, running his upper teeth over his lip.

"But the world needs a dream," he says softly, "The might not believe it, but they all need a dream. All of them. Every single one."

He looks up again, eyes wistful and sad but also strong and determined.

"A dream of a world where you don't have to worry about losing yourself, about being invisible," he starts softly, staring at the mirror but no longer really looking at it. "A dream of a world where you don't have to worry about being judged for being happy, for dealing with pain in your own way. A wistful dream where you and your sister can be beside each other again. A dream where honour and pride don't hold you so tightly that you can barely breathe. Where losing respect doesn't mean the end of the world and where a sense of duty does not sweep away everything you know to be right.

"A dream where your existence was not simply one of death itself. Where you didn't have to be alone because you were afraid of hurting others. A dream where memory never fades. Where people never change and disappear. Where love is strong enough to endure the test of time. A dream where family is strong as well. Where nothing can tear the bond apart and where brotherhood is welcomed and not a synonym for heartbreak and pain. A dream where there is no dark side to conceal. Where a child's world is always filled with happiness and tomatoes and never splattered with the dark red of a blood. A dream where flowers never wither, or burn. Where white stays white forever and never becomes red and thorn-ridden."

He pauses, catching his breath quickly. He once again folds his hands neatly in his lap before licking his lips nervously and continuing.

"A dream world," he says softly, "Where you don't have to lock your heart away because all you can remember is the feeling of when it broke. Where you can forgive and move on and learn to trust again."

He blinks as he falls silent, feeling that dampness in his eyes once more.

"Everyone needs a dream," he repeats in a whisper, "Even if they hate on that dream. Even if they keep telling the dream to wake the fuck up. They need it, even if they're too damn old and stubborn to realize it."

Alfred sighs, and then sucks in a breath, jerking his head up and giving his reflection a broad smile once more.

"So, America!" he chirps, leaning back in the chair and folding one leg in the other, "That's _my _take on the whole 'You're going to fall soon' deal. Nice of me to actually tell you my opinions to your face, huh?" The smile bitters a bit and his eyes are tinged with irritation and hurt, but the gaiety is still there.

"But don't worry," he continues, "Once a dream is released and realized, it can never be taken back. I- _you're _not going to disappear just because of some debts and wars in other countries."

Alfred tilts his head, his expression softening as the harsh smile becomes gentler and more wistful, and his gaze becomes far-off.

"Because even though we fall," he whispers, hands clenched into fists, "Even though we're destroyed, we keep going. Keep on living. If they were all _truly _living in reality, then they would have completely given up on life long ago. But Spain keeps on smiling like a dumbass, Arthur still loves music and embroidery and fairy tales. Yong Soo never stops hoping for him and his sister to reconcile. And Matthew still speaks even though he knows he probably won't be heard. They all keep on trying."

"So you know," and here, Alfred smiles, "They're kind of living this dream as well. It's certainly not _realistic _to try and live in this crazy world, especially after everything those old fogeys have been through. But they do keep on trying, keep on living, and that's more idealistic and naïve than I'll ever be."

Alfred sighs again, standing up and brushing down the creases in his shirt as he does.

"We never win, but the battle rages on," he comments idly. "And it will keep raging, because, well, we're Nations! We're meant for this kind of stuff. People say 'fall' and 'destroyed' like some great ultimatum. The end. Sayonara. But we come back. We claw our way back up over the precipice we fly off of."

"We all fall down," he says finally, looking out the window and up into the sky, "But as long as we dream of a better future and a better world, we always get back up."

**/**

**And...cut. **

**God, what a monster. For a spur-of-the-moment fanfiction inspired by the intro to the song, this was ridiculously long.**

**Buuuuuuuuh. Last chapter and I feel like it was incredibly so-so. My apologies!**

**Also, I would like to thank President Obama for the last section of this story. The parts with asterisk (*) beside them are sentences that are almost exact sentences from his Inaugural Speech. I hadn't planned on using it but we annotated it in English class and some of what he said was just too perfect to not stick in here. **

**I'd also like to thank RobinRocks. Her story Pangaea was what first gave me the idea of America being Europe's dream. :3 (By the way, if you haven't read her stories you are missing out on so much. She is, without a doubt, the best USUK writer ever. But you should read her stuff even if you don't like the pairing because her characterizations of Arthur are so perfect. She's amazing. My personal favourites are 'United', 'O America', 'Shatter' and 'Solitaire'. But all of her stories are ridiculously amazing and if you don't read her stuff you are missing out on the best most quality fanfiction this site has to offer. )**

**You might have recognized lyrics from the song 'Like Toy Soldiers', which is kind of the song for this fic. It's originally by Martika, but I like Eminem's version better because the way they remixed the chorus sounds so powerful and awesome. -w-**

**So...yeah. Haha! This Author's note actually seems really short! Not too much history this time around so no overly long note!**

**So I can begin to profess my love and adoration for all of you wonderful readers.**

**No wait. I can't because I am too speechless. **

**You guys are _amazing. _Like, I got some seriously inspiring and touching reviews that made me smile like a dumbass and giggle and skip around the room as if I was five year old girl. Some of your reviews were funny, some were sweet, and others were so profound and well written that I reread them fifty million times and just soaked them in. **

**God I love you people. **

**So thank you! Thank you! It's been great! If you've enjoyed my company, my insanity, and lastly, my writing, than you might be happy to know that at some time within the next 48 hours I will begin posting my baby, 'Noise'. I've been working on this story for over a year now and have the first ten chapters written. Now that this story is finished, I'm going to start posting that one. Like I said, it's my baby so I'm really nervous. I hope you guys look out for it and continue giving me amazing reviews over there!**

**I'll also be posting a Spamano oneshot soon. It's not finished yet but it's _almost _finished. With any luck it will be posted in two weeks at the latest. **

**So...yeah. Thank you all again! I hope you stick around with my new stuff! It's been fun! **

**So, reviews for the last chapter! I'm actually really interested to see what my American readers have to say. And, you know, it would be _really _awesome if this hit 100 reviews. *w* **

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**


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